


Full Disclosure

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Series: Full Disclosure [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Dom!Bucky, Food Issues, Food Kink, Food Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby bucky, smut smut smut, sub!Steve, trash trash trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is very good at making Steve admit what he wants, and Steve is just very good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caloriebomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/gifts).



> This was the first stab at collaborative writing for both of us, and we could not have had more fun. New chapters will be posted every 2-3 days, and we can say with absolute certainty that each one is kinkier than the next. Enjoy!

After a year of searching, almost literally scouring the globe, paying shady underground informants, calling in favors, burning through relationships he couldn’t really afford to lose, and chasing down every last lead, no matter how insubstantial, Steve comes home one afternoon to find Bucky Barnes sitting on his doorstep.

It’s so completely unexpected, he doesn’t even recognize him at first; when he clocks the shaggy hair, unshaven face, and old army jacket, he assumes the man is homeless. He’s reaching for his wallet when the man looks up at him with wide-set eyes the color of wet slate and Steve stops breathing. 

“Hey Steve,” Bucky says, pushing himself wearily to his feet. “Thought you’d never get here.” He smiles, like it hasn’t been seventy years since the last time he did that, and the bottom drops out of Steve’s heart.

“Buck,” he says, a little stupidly. A million questions spring to mind, but that weary smile tells him everything he needs to know. He wraps his arms around Bucky and buries his face in his hair. He smells like wood smoke and engine oil and unwashed clothes, and it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever inhaled in his life. Bucky returns the hug, a little gingerly, metal fingers resting lightly on Steve’s back. Steve closes his eyes and holds him, breathing him in, letting himself get used to the idea that Bucky is here, it's real, _he's_ real.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he finally manages. It’s not a fraction of what he wants to ask, and as soon as he says it, he realizes it doesn’t even matter what the answer is—all that matters is Bucky: here, safe, alive.

“Looking for you,” Bucky says. “And please tell me there’s a pizza place that delivers here, because I’m fucking starving.”

*

The instant he’d clapped eyes on Steve, a warm, radiant joy had flamed to life in his chest, just like one of Pavlov’s dogs drooling at the dinner bell. It’s always like this, the surge of emotion, and it had nearly choked him when Steve had smiled that weak, wobbly smile. But he’d been prepared, he’d known it was coming. It’s not like a year ago, when strong emotional responses set off a volatile chain of reactions that were likely to end in violence. A year ago, the feelings Steve stirred in him would’ve been dangerous. He’s got it under control now. So Bucky sits across from Steve at the kitchen table in his too-small Brooklyn apartment, wondering why the hell he feels so pissed off. 

Steve’s been apologizing for about a half an hour or so, running through an endless list of things he should’ve done differently, should’ve somehow anticipated or changed, so Bucky wouldn’t have fallen, wouldn’t have been captured, wouldn’t have become whatever it is he’s become. And it’s all bullshit, because if he could’ve done it, he would’ve done it. _He’s such a punk,_ the ghost of James Barnes whispers fondly in his right ear. _He’s a liability,_ comes the sinister retort. 

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says aloud, around a mouthful of pizza. 

“What?” Steve asks, startled out of his recital of self-blame. 

“Idiot. You.” Bucky says again, polishing off the last of his Coke. “You couldn’t have done any of that stuff. There was nothing you could’ve done. What, you’re gonna go back in time and weld that handrail onto the side of the train yourself so it doesn’t fall off? Trek through the Alps looking for my body?”

“Well…yeah. Maybe I should’ve looked for you. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed –“

“You shouldn’t have assumed that dropping two thousand feet into a freezing river was probably a fatal accident?”

Steve sighs, shoves a hand through his wheat-blond hair. “When you put it like that…it does sound kinda dumb,” Steve says. “I guess I’m just trying to say I’m sorry it happened.”

“And I’m trying to say it wasn’t your fault. We all took the same risks. We all faced the same danger.”

“But you were the only one who paid for it,” Steve says. “And you were the only one–” he breaks off abruptly, staring at Bucky like he’s looking for something and isn’t sure he’s finding it. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter whose fault it was. Wish it hadn’t happened.” He looks down at his pizza, then over at Bucky’s empty plate. “I guess I’m not that hungry,” he says. “You want the rest of this?”

Bucky considers the offer. He’s full, but he still feels like eating; he almost always does. It’s the one thing he hasn’t gotten under control since he walked away from Hydra. He’d figured the romance of food would wear off eventually, that he’d get used to the novelty of having whatever he wants whenever he wants it, but it just never really gets old. And _god,_ New York-style pizza. It’s been way too long. 

And then there’s Steve, looking across the table at him so hopefully. _Let me do this one small thing for you,_ his expression says. _Aw, let him_ , says James Barnes. _Take the pizza,_ says The Asset. 

“If you’re not gonna eat it,” Bucky shrugs, accepting Steve’s plate.

*

Steve has found that most things in life, even things that are really and truly Big Deals, are also kind of not. The Big Deal—the death, the breakup, the best friend falling off a train, whatever—happens, and you’re appropriately stunned and shocked and the bottom drops out of your world—but the rest of the world just keeps on spinning. You still need to buy the groceries and pay the light bill. The laundry still piles up, the mailman still puts the neighbor’s mail in your slot, and the clerk at the bodega down the block still giggles painfully behind her hand every time you pay for your stuff. 

Everything changes, and nothing does. That’s what it’s like now. Bucky turns Steve’s whole world upside down when he shows up. And then again, life just sort of goes on.

Steve remembers clearly what it was like to share a living space with Bucky before the war. He remembers sitting on the fire escape on hot July mornings, sticky with sweat even at 7:00 AM. He remembers cold January nights, beds pushed together, huddled under the same quilt. He remembers shared meals, the smell of Lucky Strikes, the fuzzy sound of the radio in the evenings. 

Living with Bucky now is—not like that.

First of all, Bucky sleeps in Steve’s spare room, and Steve uses the word sleep loosely to describe what it is Bucky does at night. From what Steve can tell, Bucky alternates between pacing the floor—Steve imagines, horribly, the sad lions and bears he’s seen in zoos, the ones who complete the same five foot turn over and over again, endlessly—and falling asleep only to wake up screaming the walls down. 

The first time he’d screamed, Steve had gone running into the room, acting completely on instinct. For Steve’s trouble, Bucky had slammed him against the wall and pressed a knife so close to his throat that blood had welled under the blade. 

Now Steve does his best to ignore the screaming. 

Then there’s the way Bucky _watches_ him. This, too, is sort of like the lion in the zoo. Sometimes Bucky looks almost friendly, almost, sort of, like the boy Steve had known. The boy who didn’t fall. And sometimes Bucky looks blank, like a caged animal. And sometimes—sometimes he looks at Steve like Steve is prey and Bucky is a predator who’s grown bored enough to play with his kill before he eats it. 

And there’s the food thing. 

The first morning that Bucky’s there, Steve gets donuts, a dozen glazed, plus a package of little chocolate donut holes. 

“Look at you, running out to the bakery,” Bucky says, eyeing Steve over the table. He eats six of them in rapid succession, plus two glasses of milk, and then starts working methodically on donut holes. 

When Steve reaches out to grab one of the chocolate donut holes from Bucky’s plate as he goes past, on his way to refill his coffee cup, Bucky’s metal hand coils around his wrist before Steve even recognizes the movement. 

Bucky doesn’t say a word, but there is a low little rumble in his throat. Steve would call it a growl, if that didn’t sound so crazy.

“Woah there—uh, sorry,” Steve says, holding very, very still.

Bucky looks up at him, wide eyes mostly blank. He blinks once—twice—and slowly uncurls his fingers. 

“Sorry about that,” Steve says again. “Uh—you don’t share food?”

Bucky’s expression shifts in that weird way Steve has already noticed—like Bucky is cycling through a few responses before settling on one. “I guess not,” he says. 

“Noted.” Steve refills his coffee cup and takes a breath. “More coffee?”

Bucky nods, and Steve watches while he uses that menacing arm to carefully pour creamer into his coffee. 

*

Bucky has been at Steve’s place for a week when Steve tells him he needs new clothes.

“We should buy you a few things tomorrow,” Steve says over dinner, giving him that sweetly earnest expression he always beams in Bucky’s direction.

Bucky shrugs, looking down at himself. He doesn’t really take his army jacket off, even for sleeping, although he _had_ let Steve wash it, that first night. It smells nice now, like Steve, relentlessly fresh and cheerful in spite of the long road it’s traveled.

He shoves another bite of pasta into his mouth. “We should?”

“Yes.” Steve nods emphatically. 

Bucky considers, cleaning his plate and dumping an enormous third serving of fettucine onto it, then smothering the whole thing in cream sauce. Steve hands him a platter with garlic bread on it. There are three slices left, and Bucky just slides them all onto his plate. 

New clothes might be nice. 

_Unnecessary_ , The Asset proclaims. 

“All your stuff is way too big,” Steve continues, gesturing toward Bucky’s surplus jacket. 

Bucky looks down at himself again, shifting a little. The jacket is too big, yes. It hangs from his shoulders and over his wrists. The rest of his clothes, though—the ones covered up by his jacket—are not. Not by a long shot. 

His jeans are miserably tight, to be honest. They’re cutting into his waist right now, making it hard to breathe. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to physical discomfort, but he acknowledges to himself that it makes no sense to endure it if he doesn’t have to.

“Okay, I guess,” Bucky says, feeling equal parts irritated and grateful.

“Good.” Steve’s smile is like a solar flare. 

*

It’s not as bad as he anticipates, shopping with Steve. They walk through a bunch of neighborhoods that look vaguely familiar; the bones of the structures are the same but they’re almost all wearing new skins. If he’d been by himself, he might’ve found it unsettling, but Steve keeps pointing out familiar landmarks, like peeling back the corners of the world to show that the fundamental underpinnings are still the same. The two of them, alone among all the other shoppers and tourists, are walking through two overlapping Brooklyns, one that exists only in their shared memories, and the other, newer one that is all anyone else can see. 

Bucky is acutely aware that he’s never had an experience exactly like this before. Oh, he’s had the sickening, dysphoric sensation that comes with skipping over huge swaths of time; he just hasn’t ever _shared_ it before. It makes the whole thing almost pleasurable, and he can see that Steve’s enjoying himself, too, likes having someone to talk to this way, about things they both remember. 

It occurs to Bucky how lonely it must have been for Steve here, in the 21st century. He’d barely been able to socialize even when he was living out his expected lifespan; now, here he is, a genetically modified, time-traveling superhero with an overdeveloped sense of honor. He shakes his head at the thought of himself as Steve’s only hope of friendship. Pity pings across his emotional radar, sudden and sharp.

“I thought we might try this place,” Steve says, pointing to a building that used to be a car showroom back in the day. “It’s secondhand, but…well, that’s kind of a thing nowadays.” 

“It was a thing in our day,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah, but now it’s a _thing_ ,” Steve says, placing a particular emphasis on the word. “Like a trend, I guess. And I usually can’t find a whole lot I like most places. Or if I can, I end up looking like someone’s granddad. Apparently. But this place has some pretty decent stuff.” 

Bucky looks Steve over as they head up the stairs into the store, and doesn’t think he looks like any grandparents he’s ever seen. He looks damn good, actually, for a guy who’s pushing 98. And the world agrees with him, apparently, because as soon as he walks into the store, no fewer than three clerks hurry over to ask if he needs help with anything, all three of them wearing different versions of the same inviting smile. They want to touch him. They want to _do_ things to him. Bucky edges in front of Steve; he’s already assessed the threat level and the three androgynous hipsters are not going to be any kind of problem, but it seems like the right thing to do, with people coming at them that fast. 

Steve waves away their offers of help, and lets one hand rest lightly on Bucky’s human arm. It’s not a protest, it’s just an acknowledgment. The look he gives Bucky says, _Thanks,_ and Bucky automatically gives a little shrug that says, _Hey, it’s what I do._ And it is. It’s what he’s always done. 

*

Steve watches Bucky choose clothes from the scattered racks of menswear, trying to tamp down the discomfiting thrill he’s getting from this whole shopping experience. He’s been telling himself since last night at dinner that this is just about taking care of Bucky, about getting him back to normal human standards of living. He really does need clothes. He’s only got the one outfit, and although Steve had offered to loan him some clean t-shirts, Bucky had taken one look at the sheer Lycra UnderArmor shirt he’d offered and handed it right back. 

Which had been a crushing disappointment.

His brain skims over the thing he’s trying to persuade himself was a little white lie. _All your stuff is way too big,_ he’d said, as if his eyes hadn’t just trailed over the gathering softness at Bucky’s belly, visibly pushing over the waistband of his jeans. As if he hadn’t seen the way the denim pulled tight across his hips and thighs. As if he hadn’t seen the way that accursed red henley stretched thin over his wide, soft chest and massive, rounded shoulders. As if he hadn’t imagined Bucky struggling into one of his skintight tees and envisioned every new inch of pudge-covered muscle accentuated by the sleek fabric.

“Jesus,” he whispers to himself, because his face goes hot just thinking about it, and he has to pause and take a few deep breaths to pull himself together. He remembers a particularly uncomfortable conversation he’d had with Sam involving an explanation of the term “spank bank,” which had included such colorful synonyms as rub club, pole vault, jack stack, wank tank, and too many others to count, until Steve had finally had to cry Uncle. Well. Bucky in UnderArmor. Definitely one for the wood pile.

It had always been like this with Bucky, equal parts friendship and attraction, and underlying it all, the desperate yearning for Bucky to notice, to see that Steve was all for him, if he’d just _see_ him, really see him, and take that first step. Bucky never had, but Steve had sensed that he’d been agonizingly close, once or twice. And maybe that’s part of it, the strange allure of his increasing waistline; it’s a sign that his self-control isn’t absolute. He can be tempted. He gives himself a brisk mental shake. The point, he reminds himself, is finding Bucky some new clothes. He looks down at the armful of pants and shirts he’s picked out. There are some chinos, a few polo shirts, the kinds of things he usually picks out for himself, inconspicuous but comfortable. The kinds of things that never go out of style. 

And even this pile of innocent clothing is charged with a weird sexual static, because he’d had to consult the tag on Bucky’s jeans in order to figure out what sizes to look for, and he’s searingly aware of the fact that the waist size on each pair of chinos is 36 inches, a full four inches bigger than his, and for some reason that’s going directly onto his masturbatory highlight reel, too. 

*

Steve is all jazzed up. Bucky can tell, can practically smell it on him over the candles and herbal crap the kids running the place have burning everywhere. His pupils are dilated, and his eyes are following Bucky around the store like they’re magnetized. He looks flushed, like it’s too hot in here, which it isn’t.

“You okay, there?” he asks, sidling up to Steve and pawing through a rack of jeans. He isn’t sure what size to buy. He’s wearing 32s and they’re unbearably tight, even tugged down low, the way he’s been forced to wear them recently. He fastens them below his belly, if he’s fucking honest about it—and even so, they’re too damn tight. He can feel them digging into his sides, constricting his thighs, tight around his ass. Had they always been like this? He can’t remember.

“I’m good,” Steve says, sounding only a little shifty.

Bucky digs out a pair of 36s and inspects them. They don’t look huge—although the knees are ripped out, which seems stupid. Secondhand is one thing; already broken is another. God, his ma would roll over in her grave if she knew he was contemplating paying good money for pants with holes in them. 

_Sorry, Ma. Twenty-first century is strange._ He throws them over his left arm and keeps digging. He’s not sure what size shirts to get. The henley he’s wearing is a medium, and it—well. It doesn’t fucking fit. Period. 

He ends up going with larges, and amasses a small pile of t-shirts, flannels, and two white oxfords before he heads to the changing room. Steve, like a very large and handsome duckling, follows in his wake. 

Bucky pauses at the fitting room, which is actually just a little stall with a pull curtain. Steve has that same funny expression on his face, all keyed up and tensely strung. Bucky is fairly certain that if he lets him, Steve will just follow him right on inside. 

Actually, Bucky’s pretty sure that if he would allow it, Steve would follow him everywhere, including the bathroom, these days. Bucky can’t quite get a read on him, doesn’t know if Steve is following him because he’s afraid he’ll disappear again, or because of some misguided feeling of responsibility for his safety, or maybe—the most appealing option—just because he _wants_ to follow Bucky.

He raises a hand to the curtain and turns to Steve. “Hold these, would you, pal?” Before Steve can answer, he deposits about half the stack of clothes into Steve’s arms and then steps inside, whisking the curtain shut before Steve can follow.

After he sheds his army jacket, he takes a minute and just looks at himself—really looks—in the mirror. He’s been wearing his jacket constantly because it’s comforting, but it’s good camouflage, too. Without it, he looks _dense_ , stocky and broad from his shoulders to his thick waist to his thighs. The henley he’s wearing is way too small, stretched thin across his shoulders, his chest, even pulled taut at his waist, highlighting the fact that his jeans are unflatteringly tight, soft belly and sides pushing over the top. He runs his hand across his midsection, and there’s enough extra flesh there to cup it, where it’s pooling over his jeans. 

It’s surprising, but it shouldn’t be. He eats until he’s full and then has another serving—or, shit, two—most of the time these days. Being at a constant level of low-grade fullness has become the new normal; and hell, sometimes he takes it even further, until his stomach hurts a little. It’s not like this is out of the blue. But it’s still a little disconcerting. 

He’s glad Steve is on the other side of the curtain. 

He wishes Steve were on this side of the curtain.

He doesn’t fucking know what he wishes. 

It’s a relief to shimmy out of his jeans, and embarrassing to notice that they’ve left angry red lines all around his belly, where they’ve dug into his skin. The newer ones—the 36s—fit much better. 

“How’s it going?” Steve calls, and Bucky slides the curtain back. He’s wearing the jeans with the knees ripped out and a plain white t-shirt, but he stays firmly tucked in the dressing room, in deference to his very visible metal arm. He motions for Steve to step inside, instead. 

“Whaddya think?” Bucky asks, gesturing to himself. 

“I think those jeans are worn out,” Steve says. 

“It’s how the kids wear them.”

Steve crosses his arms, a particularly flattering pose that makes his chest look unbelievably good. “How would you know, Barnes?”

Bucky grins, taking a step forward until he’s in Steve’s space just a _little_ , just a tiny bit closer than propriety might dictate. It gives him a funny, shocky feeling, this tiny little almost-aggression. “What did _you_ pick out, Stevie?”

Steve digs through the stack of clothes he’d set down on a folding chair and pulls out chinos and polos. 

“That’s a mighty fine collar, Steve,” Bucky says, stepping a little closer yet again and snatching up one of the polos. “That little guy on the horse there will look real nice with the metal arm, huh?”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Nothing matches a metal arm, Buck.” 

Bucky snorts. There’s the Steve Rogers he knows—mouth on him that won’t quit. 

“Hey, run up front and get a couple pairs of suspenders for me, huh? I saw them by the door.”

Steve obediently turns on his heel, although he stops to open his mouth again, because he’s Steve. “You made fun of a polo but you want suspenders?”

“You’re goddamned right I do. I’m 99 years old, Steve. I can wear suspenders if I damn well please.”

“Are the kids wearing them?”

“Actually, yeah,” Bucky says, already back in the dressing room. “Look at the pretty boy behind the counter. He’s got ‘em.”

*

By the time they leave, Bucky is wearing a pair of the chinos Steve picked out, but he’s shoved them into his combat boots and paired them with a black v-neck t-shirt and a flannel. 

“You look like you could work here,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. 

Bucky raises his eyebrows and leans just slightly in Steve’s direction until their shoulders brush for a moment, and he curls the edge of his lip into something like a smile, maybe. “It’s called deep cover.” 

“Uh huh.”

As they step back out onto the street, all Steve can think about is Bucky, and he’s beside himself. Buck has a whole bag of new clothes, and he’d looked good in all of them—including the damn suspenders. He’d tried them on over an oxford, two black elastic lines that had perfectly, achingly framed his thick midsection, and Jesus-jumped-up-Christ, Steve hadn’t been able to look away. All he could see was Bucky’s waist, all he could think was what it might look like if it were bigger. If Bucky’s belly—the soft, aching curve of it—grew, pushed forward, rounded out. Steve can picture it now, framed by those suspenders, and it just about kills him. 

The material in the spank bank is getting increasingly weird, and Steve buries this one deep in the back, where he keeps his very best material. 

Steve blinks, clearing the image of Bucky and his suspenders from his mind. “You wanna get some lunch?” he asks, and he feels his cheeks color as he says it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gathers some very important data regarding Steve's reactions to Bucky's eating habits. It's all very scientific.

The lunch destination is never even up for discussion; they head to the nearest kosher deli, which is what they’ve been doing all week. There are only a few such establishments left in Brooklyn; they’d been everywhere before World War II, must’ve been hundreds in Brooklyn and thousands in the city as a whole, but they’re significantly harder to find now. They head to the one on Atlantic, tucked into a converted rowhome between a Kung Fu variety store and a Dominican hairdresser.

If the number of delis has dwindled, the survivors appear to be making up for the losses by packing three or four delis’ worth of meat onto every sandwich, Bucky thinks, watching as his two sandwiches – both pastrami on rye, both half a foot thick – are assembled behind the spotlessly white counter. He adds two half-sour pickles and a potato knish to his order, just to round the whole thing out, and the man behind the counter whistles, impressed.

“You got a death wish or something, buddy?” he asks, passing the two paper-wrapped sandwiches over the counter. “You seen these things?” He grabs a little sheet of waxed paper out of a box and withdraws a knish from the cabinet, bronzed, flaky pastry tucked neatly around the savory potato filling. It’s about the same size as the sandwiches. Bucky feels like he’s being challenged, like this man expects him to back down from quantity of food piling up on the counter. So, just to be perverse, he orders a second knish, this one filled with cheese. 

Steve places his order – a comparably abstemious single sandwich with fries, pickles, and a side of sweet potato and apple kugel. When they get to the register, the proprietor gestures to the glass-fronted refrigerator behind them. “Drinks? And also: we’re selling cheesecake now. Junior’s. Not the ones made in Jersey, these are made at the store in Flatbush. Maybe you want to take one home?” He doesn’t look particularly hopeful, but to Bucky’s surprise, Steve – who doesn’t really seem to have much of a sweet tooth – picks one and sets it down on the counter, along with two glass bottles of Hires.

With the cheesecake, their order totals up to nearly a hundred dollars. The cost of things never fails to take Bucky’s breath away. That would’ve been a healthy two months’ rent in 1940, and they just burned through it in five minutes on a single meal. Well, a single meal and a dessert, anyway. A _large_ meal. And multiple servings of dessert. But still. 

Steve shells out for it without flinching, though, and Bucky guesses that as culture shock goes, they’ve both faced bigger problems than inflation. 

They take their lunch down to Prospect Park, take up residence on a park bench, and get down to business. As he works through his first sandwich, it crosses Bucky’s mind – not for the first time – that maybe his current relationship with food is, just perhaps, a little disordered. Maybe even unsustainable. He reflects on his day so far; waking up a little bloated from all the pasta last night, but nonetheless famished. Struggling to button his jeans, working his way through the remaining half-dozen donuts and the last of the milk at breakfast. Steve had watched, dazed, and at the time, Bucky had attributed it to a restless night’s sleep, but he’s starting to think that it might be something else. Disapproval? Concern? He remembers how he’d nearly crushed Steve’s wrist just for trying to nab a damn donut hole. Would Steve even tell him if he were worried? Or would he hang back, fearful of Bucky’s unpredictable reaction?

He pops the last of the sandwich into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and glances sideways at Steve. Steve’s head snaps forward and…is he _blushing?_ He turns away, pretends to take an interest in the activities of a small flock of pigeons competing for handfuls of birdseed at a nearby bench. Bucky swallows hard and sips his root beer. Two choices suggest themselves. Bucky can ask him, outright, if there’s anything he’d like to talk about. Or he can test him, and draw his own conclusions.

He looks down at the rest of his lunch. This is really overdoing it, he knows. But hell, he just got new jeans, and he’d defy anyone to subsist on the tubed-in nutritive slurry provided by Hydra for seventy years and not overdo it a little, he really would. Fuck it. He’s not even fat, he’s just a big guy, and suddenly he can’t think of a single persuasive reason why he shouldn’t eat exactly what he wants, whenever he wants to. Besides, now he has a little mission, to figure out what the hell is going on inside Steve Rogers’ head. He takes his missions very seriously.

He debates, briefly, between the knishes and the second sandwich, and decides in favor of the sandwich. That thick stack of pastrami will fill him up eventually, but once the carbs from the potatoes and all that dough hit his system, he’s going to be eating on borrowed time. He catches Steve’s eye and bites into the second sandwich like it’s his job. It starts out well enough, it’s a freaking delicious sandwich, the bread is rye of the perfect consistency, chewy and soft, and the pastrami is thick and sliced clean, the familiar salty-smoky twang sharp in his mouth. By the end, though, he’s really starting to feel full, and he bolts the second half before his digestive system can register what’s going on and start lodging protests. 

And Steve – well. He’s definitely watching, definitely pretending not to, and definitely having some kind of reaction. It’s not disgust, and it’s not disapproval. Bucky’s eyes flicker over Steve’s face as he takes a breather, nibbling on one of the pickles, human hand laid assessingly against his full belly. It feels good and bad at the same time – it’s reassuring to be full, and it’s extra nice to be full of delicious food that he got to pick out and that tastes like home. But he feels like he’s swallowed a bowling ball. Hell, he _looks_ like he swallowed a bowling ball, almost. He leans back a little, sipping more root beer, and points out across the park. “Didn’t we come out here when they opened the zoo? Maybe 1935?”

Steve looks a little flustered, but pleased. “Yeah, we did,” he says softly. “You got work all that year with the WPA, when they were building all the zoo buildings. Took me to the opening. That was great.”

“Thought I remembered that,” Bucky says, heaving a breath and shoving his waistband lower down on his hips. “That was a good time.” He picks up the first knish, bites into it. God, it’s delicious, but he’s so full it’s hard to fully appreciate it. He regards the cheese knish dubiously, suddenly regretting his brash decision. Still; he’d ordered it; he’s eating it. 

Steve’s still working on his sandwich, but as Bucky chews his way through the pastry, he seems to forget his own lunch entirely in favor of watching Bucky. It’s like his eyes just can’t help themselves, dragging themselves back over to Bucky no matter where Steve tries to put them. Pigeons just can’t compete, apparently, with what’s happening on the other side of the park bench. Steve’s gaze keeps dipping down to where Bucky’s shirt is bulging now with his fullness – surely a temporary condition – then lingering on his mouth, and he actually takes his lower lip in his teeth when Bucky dabs a little bit of cheese filling from the corner of his lips with his thumb, then puts the tip of his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean. 

“God,” Bucky says, playing it up, but only a little, because Jesus, he is So. Damn. Full. He stifles a burp against his fist, then chugs the last of the root beer. “Jesus, that was a lot of food. Holy shit. Would you look at this?” And he cradles his swollen belly with both hands in illustration of his overindulgence.

Steve’s face goes pink, the blush spreading down to the collar of his shirt and all the way to the tips of his ears. He can barely bring himself to look, like he’s afraid of what might happen next, but eventually, Bucky watches as he glances down for something like a nanosecond before turning somehow even redder and looking away. “Wow,” he says a little weakly. “Guess…“ his voice comes out rough and unsteady, and he clears his throat. “Guess you must’ve, um, been hungry.”

“Starving,” Bucky says. “But Jesus, I don’t even think I can move right now. Fuck. We might have to call a cab.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and he looks…what? Disappointed? Bucky isn’t getting a clear read on him at all, he’s all over the place. Embarrassed, nervous, the little pulse in the hollow of his throat positively galloping. “It’s just…I don’t think I have room for the kugel, after all,” he says, nudging the plastic container closer to Bucky on the park bench. 

Bucky is so astonished he almost laughs out loud. Is it possible – is it even remotely conceivable - that the little perv is getting off on this? Or is this just some kind of extremely misguided caretaking behavior gone berserk? Only one way to find out. He picks up the plastic container and fishes around in the bag for a fork. “I hate to see good food go to waste,” he says, and forks up a huge bite.

*

They get a cab home. 

A part of Steve—a little, kinky part of him that he keeps buried even deeper than the part of him that longs to see Bucky in UnderArmor—had wanted to refuse, just to see Bucky walk back to the apartment. And sweet merciful Jesus, _why_ would Steve want to see that? Bucky was obviously uncomfortable, cradling his visibly distended belly and panting like he’d been sprinting up a few flights of stairs instead of sitting on a park bench and stuffing his face. 

God, he’d stuffed his face. Two huge sandwiches, the knishes, the root beer, Steve’s kugel. All of it had gone right down Bucky’s throat, and Bucky had gasped and hiccupped and groaned—and leaned back like he was proud of himself for being such a glutton. 

Steve’s apartment is a third-story walkup, and Bucky exhales sharply at the bottom of the stairs, resting one hand on the side of his belly. 

“Want me to carry you?” Steve jokes. 

“Captain America can’t carry the goddamn Winter Soldier up a flight of stairs. It’s not seemly,” Bucky shoots back. 

Steve feels his eyebrows shoot up around his hairline, and he chokes out a laugh. It’s the first time Bucky’s ever referred to himself that way, and it’s shocking to hear it. It’s also weirdly comforting, that Bucky can joke about it. 

“Steve could carry Bucky up the stairs,” Steve says. 

“If anyone’s carrying anyone, it’d be me carrying you.” 

Steve inhales, taken by surprise yet again. There’s something visceral about it, the image of Bucky carrying him. Not that he wants to be carried up the stairs, necessarily—or anywhere, for that matter. But it’s the principle of the thing, the way that Bucky says it; the way that Bucky seems to think that him carrying Steve, taking care of Steve, protecting Steve, is an unshakable, foundational truth. It makes Steve wonder if Bucky remembers the times that he really did carry Steve, when Steve was still small, still sick. It makes Steve wonder what Bucky means, really. 

Bucky huffs out a breath and shuffles up the steps, groaning a little as he goes, and Steve follows him up, his stomach fluttering madly.

*

That night, Steve cooks. He bakes potatoes and sears a couple of steaks on the stove—nothing fancy, but a real, actual meal, probably much heavier than anything Bucky should reasonably want to eat after his lunch. 

Steve throws the potatoes in the oven and seasons the steak while Bucky’s still napping on the couch, studiously refraining from asking himself why he’s cooking tonight. The truth is, there are no good reasons, but there are a bunch of questionable ones. 

He’s cooking because he wants to see exactly how much Bucky can eat. He’s cooking because the idea, however fanciful, of Bucky outgrowing his brand new clothes is zinging around in the back of his mind, unbidden and bizarrely sexy. He’s cooking because Bucky had seemed like he was almost showing off at lunch, and Steve desperately wants a repeat performance. 

Bucky does not disappoint. 

He’d been napping on the couch—an incongruous and adorable occurrence, Bucky sprawled on Steve’s sofa, the lines around his eyes and mouth that he’d come home with smoothed out in sleep—but he wakes up when Steve is nearly finished cooking. He wanders into the kitchen, t-shirt rumpled and hair mussed, his eyes still sleepy and soft. 

“Whatcha got here?” Bucky asks, rocking on his heels and watching Steve work. 

“Dinner?” It comes out as a question. 

Bucky nods, absently taking an elastic from his wrist and gathering his hair back into a little knot. “Sure. I could eat.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “I’m not sure how, after lunch.” 

Bucky gives Steve a funny look and prods at his tummy, which still looks round but no longer painfully bloated. “I can handle it,” Bucky says, nodding toward the plate Steve has just made for him, a steak and baked potato and some broccoli, because Steve values the importance of a balanced meal. Sort of. 

“There’s cheesecake, too,” Steve blurts out before he even realizes he’s going to speak. 

Bucky freezes for the briefest of moments, and once again Steve can’t quite read his expression. “Jesus, Rogers. Gonna make me fat.”

Steve’s cheeks flame hot and bright, and he makes an excuse to turn away, digging in the refrigerator for nothing. Before he has much of a chance to compose himself, though, Bucky is speaking again. “Let’s eat in the living room,” Bucky says. “Bring the cheesecake.”

Steve tries, truly, not to stare while Bucky eats. He tries not to watch that metal hand cutting up steak with disconcerting agility. He tries not to watch the way that Bucky plows through his baked potato, drenched in butter and sour cream, scooping up big bites of it between mouthfuls of steak. He tries not to notice the way Bucky shifts his weight, like his belly is sore. 

He tries not to notice any of it, but it’s _all_ he can notice. 

When Bucky’s scraped his plate clean, he leans forward and sets it on the coffee table, letting out a soft little ‘oomph’ as he moves. Steve watches, amazed, as Bucky grabs the cheesecake container and pulls it back onto his lap. 

Bucky doesn’t bother getting a slice out and putting it on his plate—he just flips open the bakery box and digs in, coming up with a forkful of cheesecake and shoving it in his mouth. 

“Shit, tha’s good,” he says, voice thick with cheesecake. 

Steve nods, screaming at himself to find some words and say them, rather than just sitting there, staring at his best friend making love to a fucking cheesecake. “Uh—good, Buck. Good.” 

Bucky slides his gaze over to Steve and makes eye contact before Steve can look away. “You want some, Stevie?”

“Uh—no, no, I’m good,” Steve says, setting his own plate down with a thunk. There’s still food left on it, but he’s definitely done. He can’t really focus, what with Bucky sitting with a whole cheesecake in his lap, eating steadily. 

As Steve watches, Buck slides his hand over the side of his tummy, pushing lightly on it. He groans a little, shifting his weight and taking another bite. 

“Does it—does your belly hurt?” Steve’s cheeks are flushed. 

Bucky gives him a speculative look, and Steve has the horrible, vertiginous feeling that Bucky knows exactly what he’s thinking, exactly what he’s been stashing in the spank bank lately. It’s fleeting, though, and then Bucky just shrugs, patting the mound of his little belly gently. “Not too bad. Are you gonna finish that?” He points with his fork at Steve’s plate, where half a steak and some baked potato remain. 

“Uh—no, no I’m good, wasn’t that hungry I guess,” Steve says. 

Bucky shoves a particularly huge bite of cheesecake into his mouth and then sets the box beside him on the couch and gestures toward Steve’s plate again. “Pass it over, then.”

Steve stares for a second. “You’re gonna eat my leftovers.” He means it as a question, but it comes out flat. 

“Not gonna let you waste ‘em.” Bucky leans back a little, letting his belly round forward in a tight little ball that his new t-shirt does absolutely nothing to hide. At this rate, they’ll be replacing his wardrobe again in no time, and Steve can hardly catch his breath imagining it. 

Steve wordlessly hands over his plate. All he can do is watch as Bucky goes to work, eating the rest of his meal with a brutal efficiency. He’s not messy, exactly, but he cuts the steak into huge chunks, and his mouth is always, always full. 

When he finishes, he doesn’t bother to put the empty plate on the coffee table with his own. He just hands it to Steve, like he knows Steve is sitting there gagging over him, waiting to do his bidding—which he sort of is—and then Bucky sucks in a couple of deep breaths, pulls the waist of new chinos a bit lower, and grabs his box of cheesecake again. 

Steve sets the empty plate on the coffee table and watches him, hardly subtle. He doesn’t even really try to be, at this point, since Bucky so obviously seems to be putting on some kind of a performance. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” Bucky says, looking at him with big blue eyes, massive forkful of cheesecake paused halfway to his mouth. 

“Uh—no, no I think I’m good,” Steve says. 

Bucky shrugs, bringing the fork to his mouth. “Okay, but I’m not sure why you bought a whole cheesecake if I’m the only one eating it, pal.”

“I didn’t think you’d eat it all at once,” Steve says, and he feels his cheeks go pink as soon as the words are out. 

Bucky huffs out a pained little bit of laughter that makes his full stomach jump a bit. Which Steve notices. Because he is looking. “Not gonna eat it all,” Bucky says, wiggling again and wheezing a little, rubbing his metal hand down the side of his round little ball of distended belly. Then he takes another bite. 

“Coulda fooled me.” Steve’s not sure why he says it. His cheeks are already burning, but somehow he can’t resist it, wants to keep the conversation going, wants to see, maybe, if he can goad Bucky into eating _more_. Bucky had always been that way, before, always up for a dare. If Steve had ever wanted anything as a kid, all he’d had to do was triple dog dare Bucky, and it was as good as done. 

Actually, all he’d ever had to do was ask nicely, too. He imagines that—just asking Bucky to eat, sweet as pie, just to see what he’d do—and then he has to look away, busies himself stacking up his and Bucky’s empty dinner plates. 

Bucky pats his tummy one more time. “Nah, can’t eat the whole thing. Look at this, Stevie.” He runs his hand over his belly. “Swear, you’re gonna make me fat.”

Steve gapes at him, taking in the nearly half-eaten cheesecake, Bucky’s visibly bloated gut, the stray crumb of cheesecake clinging to Bucky’s pretty, fat bottom lip. 

“Ah,” Steve stammers. “Uh, I—you deserve to eat what you want, now,” he finally says, sounding more serious than he’d meant to. It’s like that sometimes; the unbearable weight of their past comes creeping up on them, an unwelcome guest that keeps showing up. 

Bucky gives him another one of those funny, unreadable expressions. “Goddamn right.”

*

When Bucky staggers to bed that night, stomach impossibly full, bloated up hard and round, hot and achy to the touch, he’s miserable. He’s also deeply satisfied. 

The mission—Operation Figure Steve the Fuck Out—is going well. All preliminary signs, including Steve’s beautifully blushing cheeks, indicate that yes, Steve is getting right the hell off on Bucky’s indulgence.

If Bucky were a gambling man, he’d bet that Steve is tossing one off right now, all worked into a state because Bucky has eaten enough to feed a family of four today. 

Good for Steve. Bucky can’t even entertain the idea of touching his dick right now. All he can do is curl up on his side and cradle his sore belly, panting. 

He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep this up, eating like this—he really is going to get fat, that hadn’t only been idle talk for Steve’s benefit. As he falls asleep, stomach gurgling and rolling under his palm, breath shallow, stuffed to the point of discomfort, he thinks that he’ll have to keep it up for at least a while longer. The mission requires that he gathers more intel, and Bucky is a thorough man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns that all he ever has to do is ask. Nicely.

Masturbation isn’t something that Steve’s ever been particularly comfortable with; between his Catholic upbringing and his disinclination toward self-indulgence, the whole business is fraught with so much guilt that despite his sincere belief that there’s nothing wrong with it – on the contrary, it seems entirely reasonable and often necessary – he can’t help hearing Sister Mary Agnes’s strident voice in his head every time he does it, insisting that he is a disgrace before god, that he is afflicted with a grave moral disorder, and that he shall surely be struck blind for his sins. 

He doesn’t even want to consider what she’d say about all his sexual energy being directed toward Bucky. Or about the nature of his feelings about Bucky in general, and his increasing weight in particular. Masturbation? That’s at least _normal._ He knows he isn’t doing anything wrong, no matter what the switch-wielding nun in his head says. And Bucky? He’s loved him so long it’s like breathing; he just can’t imagine a god who’d put him through so much anguish, only to reunite him with someone he isn’t supposed to love, no matter what form that love happens to take. 

But the other thing? The thing about Bucky and food and the way he’s piling on weight like it’s his mission in life? There has to be something wrong with that. And if there is, Steve should care about it. He _does_ care about it. He is also hopelessly, uncontrollably turned on by it.

He can’t even bring himself to talk about it; the smallest acknowledgement of what’s happening, even just the tiniest little glancing remark, makes him go hot all over, blood lighting up his skin like a neon sign announcing the fact of his nearly desperate arousal.

And Bucky, he’s not really talking about it, either. Oh, he might occasionally eye the huge helpings of food Steve spoons onto his plate and say something like, “Jeez, Rogers, tryin’ to fatten me up?” or “Hell, at this rate, I’ll weigh three hundred pounds by next Christmas,” but he almost seems oblivious to the way his belly has started to bloom steadily outward, overtopping the waistband of his newest jeans and defying all attempts to button his once-oversized flannel shirts.

Steve isn’t sure - there’s not a scale in the apartment, there’d never been a point, since his own size never fluctuates, no matter what he eats – but he guesses Bucky’s put on at least thirty pounds since he showed up three months ago. Maybe even more. And it’s not like he’d been starving when he arrived, either. 

When Steve had first recognized him more than a year earlier, before his memory had returned, he’d looked considerably slimmer than he had when he turned up on Steve’s doorstep. He hadn’t been fat, just solid, stocky and incredibly muscular. And he isn’t fat now, not really, but he’s certainly well into “chubby” territory, and he’s not wrong about the rate at which he’s gaining. That could very well put him close to three hundred pounds by Christmas, Steve guesses. It’s only nine months away. 

A rogue thought - _Merry Christmas_ \- drifts across his brain, and he pushes his burning face into his pillow, wondering what the hell is the matter with him. But the thing is, now that the thought is there – Bucky, thirty pounds from now, or forty, or even more – it’s obvious he’s not getting any sleep until he does something about the almost painful erection his imagination has so helpfully encouraged into existence. 

Sister Mary Agnes is absolutely no competition whatsoever for the mental image of Bucky, his thick, round belly growing even bigger, resting on his lap when he sits down, making a little shelf under his pecs. Love handles rounding out more and more into a fully-fledged spare tire that would settle around his waist and pudge out over the waistband of his pants. His thighs thicker, his ass rounder, that fetching little double chin becoming a full-time presence instead of an occasional visitor. Oh god. He thinks about just last night, after dinner. They’d walked down to the fancy ice cream place a few blocks from the apartment, and on the way home – after three massive scoops of pistachio, cherry and chocolate stuffed into an extra-large handmade waffle cone for Bucky, a meager single scoop of vanilla in a paper cup for Steve – Bucky had shucked off his flannel shirt in the warm early summer air. The thin fabric of the white t-shirt stretched across the roundest part of his belly like a sling, obviously straining with the effort to contain the heavy flesh within. There’d been a shadowed dimple where his navel was visible under the thin cotton. Oh _god._ He’ll outgrow it by this time next month, if he keeps eating like this. _Oh god oh god oh god._

He imagines Bucky saying something about it, making one of those little offhand remarks – _Really? More pancakes, Steve? You want me to get fat?_

“Yes,” he whispers out loud, and _Yes,_ he says in his mind, to Bucky, _God, yes, Bucky, please, please eat all of these pancakes, because I do want you to get fat, I want to see what you look like fifty pounds heavier, I want you to – to – to pin me down under your big, fat, round, beautiful heavy body and – and – ohSweetBabyJesus--_ and there it is, the sweet spot, the moment when his mind whites out and he can’t even imagine what it is exactly that he wants, the idea is too explosively hot for him to handle. “Oh, _oh,_ Bucky, _Buck_ , ohmygod, _oh,_ ” and he turns again to muffle the helpless little sounds he’s making in his pillow, body convulsing ecstatically against the mattress, coming so hard it’s almost like punishment. 

He hopes like hell Bucky can’t hear him. 

*

Bucky wakes up to the smell of pancakes.

He stays right where he is for a little while, enjoying the smell of coffee, the soft yellow light from the window, the sound of pancake batter sizzling against the hot iron griddle. It’s a nice way to wake up. It’s a nice place to wake up, and it’s extra nice to think of Steve waiting for him in the kitchen, the way he’ll smile when Bucky finally drags his ass out of bed and makes his way out into the kitchen. 

Thinking of that smile, he finally stirs and heaves himself up, groaning a little, because his stomach is still feeling pretty defeated from everything he’d eaten last night, and he still feels partially full, his belly still swollen from his last meal. He looks down at himself, curious, cradling the curve of his belly in his hand. 

Where there’d been a thick wall of ridged muscle, there’s now a soft, sloping gut, just big enough to be really round. He pulls a t-shirt on and checks himself out in the mirror. The tee skims the crest of his belly and hangs loose in the air, a few inches away from the drawstring top of his sweatpants. The underswell of his belly is bare, hanging over the drawstring, not covered by the shirt. He touches his hand to it, marveling, and thinks, _Steve would love this._

He knows that Steve would love this, because he’d stopped overeating for the purposes of data collection almost two months earlier; there’d been no point; it had become demonstrably redundant. He can hear Steve taking matters into his own hands almost every night, knows he’s almost uncontrollably turned on by whatever it is they’re doing, doesn’t need any other proof than the look on Steve’s face whenever he digs into some ridiculously calorific meal.

So yeah, he’s done testing Steve’s feelings on the matter. Now he just does it because Steve so obviously wants him to. Steve won’t – or can’t – speak about it; he gets so flustered by Bucky’s teasing he can’t even meet his eyes. It’s adorable, but it’s also worrying, because Bucky’s given him every opening, dozens of very clear opportunities, to just come right out and say what’s on his mind. And he still hasn’t done it. 

Bucky knows Steve still feels guilty, and always will, about the past. Nothing Bucky says seems to be able to change that. But he shouldn’t feel guilty about _this,_ the very mutual attraction between them. It pisses Bucky off, honestly, to have to overcome Steve’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility just to get him to accept something they both know he wants. As usual, Steve just doesn’t know when to quit. 

Bucky’s been making this too easy, that’s the problem. He’s been giving Steve what he wants without making him work for it. He glances in the mirror one more time, rumpling the t-shirt so it gathers, just a little, over the top of his gut, emphasizing the happy little swell.

He likes pancakes fine, and even now, he could probably bolt down a dozen or so, easy. And he can smell the faint sage-and-maple scent of sausages cooking, too. He _wants_ to eat them; wants to watch Steve blush and stammer and look at him like he can hardly breathe for wanting him. He’s gotten to like the feeling of being really, truly full, the heat and ache of his belly at night, the way it sets his mind adrift from its troubled moorings. 

But goddamn, if Steve thinks he’s eating more than four pancakes without being asked, he’s got another think coming. 

*

The thing about Bucky’s new plan, the one where he refuses to give Steve what he wants if Steve doesn’t acknowledge it’s what he wants, is that it also punishes Bucky. Because four pancakes? Is not enough pancakes. 

It’s disconcerting, really, how quickly four pancakes and a couple of sausage patties disappear down Bucky’s throat. He’s just settled in, barely gotten started, and breakfast is supposed to be over. Is this how normal people eat every day? He’s fucking starving. 

Steve is sitting across the table from him, looking at Bucky with this concerned, hangdog expression on his face, like he’s just so _worried_ , and it makes Bucky long to reach out and shake him. He doesn’t need Steve Rogers’ guilt, or his self-flagellation, or his All-American Boy Scout routine. What he needs is for Steve to man up and acknowledge that yes, he’s been happily overfeeding Bucky for months now, and yes, he’s getting right the hell off on it, and yes, he’d like it to continue, please. 

For someone who’s brave enough to charge into enemy territory with literally no plan beyond Punching Things, Steve is being a bit of a coward. 

Or maybe Bucky’s just exceptionally grouchy because he’s _hungry_. 

“You feeling okay?” Steve asks, looking at him over his coffee cup, his eyes twin pools of innocence and light.

“Yeah. Why?” Bucky purposely pushes his empty plate away before meeting Steve’s gaze and holding it. 

Steve shrugs, all exaggerated nonchalance that has Bucky grinding his teeth. “No reason. You want more? I made a bunch.”

“Nope, I’m good.”

“Oh.” Steve looks so ever-loving _sad_ that Bucky almost relents, almost offers to eat whatever the hell Steve puts in front of him just to make him lose that godawful sad puppy expression, but he doesn’t. This is important. He is Teaching Steve a Goddamn Lesson. 

The moment Steve gets up to go shower, Bucky plows through three granola bars and most of a box of PopTarts—which is depressing, because there is a stack of pancakes on the stove and he can’t fucking eat them—and then chugs half a gallon of chocolate milk, hoping Steve doesn’t remember that the container was practically full. 

The plan is going to be harder to implement than he thought. And now his stomach hurts, and not in the good, satisfied way it does when he’s stuffed himself, slow and steady and full, for Steve. This is just the slightly nauseous, sick feeling of shoving down too much junk food at once, miserable and secretive, belly tender and churning. 

By the end of the day, Bucky and Steve are both in awful moods. 

*

After that, a pattern develops. Bucky turns down anything that looks even remotely like an excess of food, and Steve watches him, looking progressively more traumatized. 

Steve makes pans of lasagna, huge batches of biscuits and gravy, stacks of bacon cheeseburgers fried up greasy and comforting on the stove. Bucky eats one modest serving and then pushes his plate away, daring Steve to say anything. 

And all the while, Bucky stuffs himself stupid whenever Steve isn’t looking. He chokes down Powerbars and potato chips, chugs milk and inhales sleeves of crackers dunked in peanut butter—or just slathered with regular butter. He makes excuses to go out without Steve and buys truly horrifying amounts of fast food, shoveling it down with a frustrated, spiteful intensity that surprises even Bucky himself. 

Sometimes, after an excursion like this when he’ll buy a whole sack of burgers and fries and sit at the park, eating until his stomach bloats up round and full, until the waistband of his new jeans is so unbearably tight that he has to thumb it open just to take a full breath, he can barely make it back up the stairs to the apartment. He’ll have to stop at the door, panting, and catch his breath before he goes inside, where he has to pretend he hasn’t eaten half a dozen cheeseburgers and fries.

It would be one thing to be turning into such a fat ass with Steve panting after him, enjoying every moment. It’s quite another for it to be happening like this, furtive and guilty and joyless. 

It’s depressing, is what it is. 

*

“So what do you want?” Steve says one evening, holding out the Chinese menu. He’s waiting for Bucky to say something awful and miserable like “whatever is fine,” or “I’m not that hungry, just get me whatever you get.” That’s what he’s been saying constantly, the last few weeks. No more gratuitous, hours-long sessions where Bucky eats—and eats, and eats—until Steve’s shoving his cock down with the heel of his hand. No more displays of utter, incomparable gluttony that end with Bucky panting and gasping, looking both blissfully content and physically pained. No more tingling, choking sexual tension coloring every meal, every interaction, every moment. 

No more of anything except a dull, throbbing absence and low-level frustration that makes Steve ache. 

“What do you think I should get?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow at him, and Steve can’t read his expression. 

“Whatever you want, Buck,” he says immediately, not wanting to touch that question with a ten-foot pole. 

Before Steve even realizes what’s happening, Bucky is on his feet and right up in Steve’s space, so close that they’re touching, the curve of Bucky’s belly pushed right up against Steve’s abs. 

“Tell me what you fucking want, Steve. Fucking say it.” 

“Uh—what?” Steve’s mind is spinning, trying desperate to compute any of this, but all he can see is Bucky, eyes dark and flinty, pinning him. All he can feel is Bucky’s belly, round and firm and _big_ , bigger than it should be given the way that Bucky has been eating—or not eating—lately. And god help him, his legs are actually, physically weak. All he wants is to fall on his knees, rest his forehead against Bucky’s thick thigh—Jesus. He can’t _breathe_ , and it feels like having asthma all over again, dizzy and helpless—

“ _Steve_.” Bucky’s voice is firm and level, and Steve focuses on it the way a drowning man would grab a rope. “Steve. Breathe. Look at me.” 

Steve just nods, feeling absolutely ridiculous, remembering all the times Bucky had done something similar with him when he really did have asthma. He remembers Bucky, hands on Steve’s shoulders, telling him to _breathe, easy now_ , and Steve would mimic Bucky’s inhalations, steady and slow, until he didn’t feel like he was dying. 

“You’re okay, Steve. You’re okay.” Bucky’s expression is inscrutable, intense and direct. “I want you to tell me what you want, Stevie. Okay? Everything’s okay. Just tell me.” 

Steve feels his heartrate ratchet up, his cheeks burning, and he’s torn between wanting to melt against Bucky—against that _belly_ \--and turn tail and run. He can’t “just tell” Bucky, can’t subject the person he loves most in the world to his own most secret, wicked fantasies, things he’s embarrassed even to think about, let alone to share. Things that he’s fairly certain are more sinful than anything Sister Mary Agnes could have dreamed up.

“I—“ Steve pauses. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can. _Do it,_ Stevie. Do it for me, baby.”

The endearment comes tripping so naturally off Bucky’s tongue, as if he’s been calling Steve pet names since the thirties, like it’s just part of their dynamic. Somehow it is exactly what Steve needs to hear. 

“I want. I—I want you to—Jesus, Buck.” Steve scrubs his hands through his hair, so frustrated he could scream, so anxious his lips are numb with it. “I don’t know how to _say it_ , damn it.” 

Bucky shakes his head a little. “You’re gonna have to, sweetheart. I’d do anything for you—anything in the fuckin’ world, Stevie—but you need to be good and do this for me. Tell me what you want me to do right now.” 

Steve can’t decide if he feels like his heart will stop or beat out of his chest. Of everything he’s done in his crazy life—fighting aliens and Hydra, giving what he'd thought was his life for his country, storming into enemy territory—this is the single hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“Iwantyoutoeatasmuchasyoucan," he gasps. Then, after another hastily gulped breath, he adds, a little wryly, "Please."

Bucky looks at him for just a moment, and then the corners of his mouth twitch up into a slow, cocky, shit-eating grin. “Well there you go, honey, that was so good. Took you long enough. I’m _starving_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an obscene amount of food and sexual tension.

As soon as Steve places the order, he stands up, grabs his wallet and heads for the door. “I’ll go pick it up, it’ll be faster,” he says, and practically runs out of the apartment. He’s a blushing, stammering mess, aroused and embarrassed in equal measure, and Bucky thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He looks out the window, watching Steve’s athletic form disappear down the street at a jog, and shakes his head, pressing his hand against his belly reflectively.

Bucky hasn’t thought much about what he’s doing; tries not to wonder why he feels the need to eat until he’s so stuffed it hurts. Sometimes, though, especially late at night when he has trouble getting to sleep with all that food inside him, it’s hard to ignore the fact that yeah, he’s gained some weight – possibly quite a lot of weight – and if he keeps eating like this, he’s going to keep gaining weight, going to get fat, if he’s not there already. Which, he thinks, looking down at himself, at the heavy gut that arcs out under his pecs and hovers over the too-tight waistband of his jeans, he probably is. He wonders why he’s doing it, why it feels good, even when it feels bad; wonders why Steve seems to find it almost breathtakingly erotic, and why the thought of pulling Steve’s trim, flat stomach up against his round, soft one sends his blood surging to all the right (wrong) places. 

The thing about regaining control of his body after all this time is that he had forgotten how much a body wants to be in control of itself. He hadn’t needed to exercise willpower as the Winter Soldier; there had been brutally enforced rules that kept him in check. The things they’d done to him had disrupted the connection between his mind and body so completely, he’d felt like a ghost piloting the beautifully maintained machine of his body around the world, separate from it, not part of it. 

So it’s been a bit of a surprise to remember that when his mind is distressed, his body has ideas about how to handle that distress. _Maybe eat all these cupcakes,_ his body says. _Get another milkshake. Get some onion rings. Eat all these fries._ Somehow, it works, the simple self-soothing act of overeating. It keeps him on an even keel, makes all the other stuff easier to take. So if he gets bigger - _if,_ he scoffs at himself – if he gets heavier, if he outgrows all his new clothes, if he eats until he can barely walk, until going up the stairs feels like climbing Mount Everest? It’s a small price to pay for how close it gets him to peace of mind. And really, he doesn’t mind the extra weight; it’s a reminder of the fact that he’s entitled to pleasure, that he’s allowed to indulge himself, and honestly, he kind of loves the whole business. 

The thing is, though, that it’s not just about him, hasn’t been since he got to Brooklyn, and Steve’s admission has just driven this home with surprising force. Without Steve cooking for him and looking at him with those huge, pleading, hopeful eyes, it’s all just so many empty calories. But _with_ Steve, it’s something else entirely. He’s about to find out what that something else entails.

It makes his heart pound.

His runs his hand over his belly, looks down at himself, considering the amount of food they’d just ordered, and heads to his room to change into sweats. The jeans he has on are already too tight; they’d loosened up a little over the course of the day, but they barely button under his belly, the waistband sagging into a little smile beneath the swelling undercurve. His sweatpants are considerably more forgiving, although nothing like as loose as they’d been when he’d bought them. His t-shirts are all seem too revealing now, stretching to accommodate him, soft fabric clinging to the round ball of his gut, tight across his chest, the fabric highlighting rather than concealing the way his pecs have softened, and his flesh arm fills its sleeve to capacity and then some, the hem digging into the pudge surrounding his bicep. It’s almost obscene, the way the shirt shows off every curve of his body. 

He pulls on a hoodie, an oversized one he’d picked up earlier in the week, zipping it up over his stomach. It tents over him, makes him look even bigger than he really is, but hell, it’s comfortable, and perhaps more importantly, roomy. 

He hears the front door slam, and heads back into the kitchen. Steve’s there, unpacking paper cartons from multiple brown paper takeout bags. 

“I got extra dumplings,” he says, smiling nervously and pointing at one of the cartons. “I hope you’re hungry.” And the way he says it, it’s obvious that he can’t believe this is really happening, like Bucky’s giving him the most beautiful gift he’s ever received, and he’s terrified that it might be snatched away at the last minute, that it might turn out to be some kind of mistake.

“Ravenous,” Bucky says, taking a seat at the table. “Let’s eat.”

*

Halfway through dinner, they just stop talking. Bucky can’t really hold up his end of the conversation anyway, since his mouth is constantly full, and Steve’s so distracted he keeps losing the thread, actually stops speaking in the middle of a sentence and forgets that he was even talking in the first place. 

Bucky’s finished off all three of the entrees that involved sweet and sour sauce, all of the egg rolls, the cheese-filled fried wontons, and is working his way through the General Tso’s chicken. He’s taking his time, making an effort to enjoy himself, and the nice thing about Chinese food is that it seems to take forever to fill him up, so he’s sated, but the feeling of truly painful fullness hasn’t really set in yet. 

“Want the last of the sesame noodles?” Steve asks, as Bucky pops the last of the sweet, sticky bits of glazed chicken into his mouth and leans away from his plate. 

Bucky gives him a look, eyebrow up. “Would you like me to eat the rest of the sesame noodles?” he asks. 

Steve barely manages to get the word out, it’s almost a whisper. “Yes,” he says, the tips of his ears turning pink. 

“Then yeah, sure, pass the sesame noodles.” Steve hands over the box and Bucky empties it onto his plate, goes to work on the noodles. 

Steve can’t decide where to look; his eyes get stuck on Bucky’s mouth, on the food on his plate, and –most of all –on his belly, which is certainly making its presence felt at this point, sitting round and full on the edge of his lap, distended a little by all the food he’s put in it. Whenever Steve meets Bucky’s eyes he looks away almost immediately, guilty as sin, and Bucky finds it completely adorable. 

“You’re allowed to look at me, you know,” Bucky says, smiling. “I don’t mind.” 

“What? Oh.” Steve’s staring again, chin on his hand, eyelashes lowered, and he straightens up, flustered. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says. “Go ahead and look,” and then, because Steve still looks unsure, he adds, “I want you to look, Stevie.” 

Having permission does nothing to dispel Steve’s obvious embarrassment; he’s shifting in his seat, fidgeting like there’s just too much energy inside him and it’s leaking out at the seams - which, Bucky thinks wryly, is probably true. Bucky scoots his seat back a little, giving him a better view, and he goes completely still, his lips parting, eyes going all soft and dark. 

Bucky slurps up the last of the noodles, pats his belly contentedly, and gives Steve an expectant look, as if to ask, _Well? What now?_

Steve’s eyes widen and he glances at the container of fried dumplings. “Um,” he says, looking up at Bucky with a nervous smile, “I’d really love it if you’d eat some of these dumplings.” 

He’s learning. “ _Some_ of the dumplings?” 

“All of the dumplings,” comes the quick reply. 

“Tell you what,” Bucky says, sitting back, lazy and full, spreading his legs and resting his hand on the crest of his swollen gut. “How ‘bout if you feed’em to me?” 

“You want me to-” 

“Yeah, I want you to feed them to me. All of them.” 

“All of them,” Steve repeats faintly. 

“All of them.” 

Steve gets up, scoots his chair closer and picks up the box, clearly intending to do this by hand, but Bucky stops him. “With chopsticks.” 

Steve nods seriously, gulps. “Right,” he says, and he’s breathing like he’s just run up fifty flights of stairs, hands shaking as he picks up his chopsticks. Carefully, he plucks up the first dumpling and dips it in the little dish of sweet chili sauce. 

He holds it out for Bucky, who leans forward, eyes on Steve’s, letting the dumpling tap his full lower lip before smiling wide, taking it between his teeth and then tonguing it into his mouth, chewing and grinning. 

Steve lets out a harsh breath. “Jesus, Bucky,” he says. “You’re gonna kill me, swear to god.” 

“You can take it,” Bucky says. “Bet you could do this all day.” 

Steve huffs a surprised laugh, shakes his head. “Guess I deserved that.” He scoots his chair closer, his knee pressing into the inside of Bucky’s, and picks up the next potsticker, dips it, lifts it up, feeds it to Bucky. He’s not great with chopsticks, just competent, but he’s being so careful, so tender, and the expression on his face is so damn earnest, Bucky could kiss him. He’s almost close enough. Bucky watches his eyes, his soft mouth, the way he can’t help but smile each time Bucky accepts the little doughy morsel he offers, and his heart contracts. 

They’re about halfway there when Bucky decides Steve’s earned a little reward. “You’re doing so good, baby,” he says, resting one hand on Steve’s knee, pressing the other against his gut, tight as a drum and starting to throb a little now, the food settling in, heavy and solid. “But I’m gonna need a little break.” 

“Sure, of course,” Steve says, setting down the takeout box. 

“Could you -” Bucky leans back in his chair, lifts his belly out of the way, and cants his hips up. “Could you loosen this drawstring for me? I can hardly breathe.” 

Steve looks stunned, but he leans forward, catches his breath as he tugs the tight string loose, and then – knuckles brushing the soft underside of Bucky’s belly, sending a shiver up Bucky’s spine - reties it, looser this time. Bucky releases his breath and lets his belly expand outward again, watching as a muscle in Steve’s jaw starts to twitch. “That’s so much better, thanks, babe.” 

Steve nods absently, eyes on Bucky’s swollen middle, and – just for fun – Bucky squirms in his seat, tugs the zipper of the hoodie down a little, so the top of his gut, where the t-shirt clings and wrinkles just below his pecs, is visible. He inhales deeply, letting his belly go high and round with his breath, and Steve has to look away. 

“Wanna touch you, Buck,” Steve almost groans, and god, Bucky wants him to, wants it like oxygen, like sunlight, but this is Steve, and he never trusts anything that comes that easy. He needs obstacles. He needs a struggle. 

“If you can give me the rest of’em without dropping any, you can touch it,” Bucky says, after a brief moment to consider. He presses his own hand onto the side of his gut, illustrating exactly how much give there is, and Steve sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. 

“Right,” Steve says, picking up the chopsticks again, inhaling a sharp, steadying breath. “Okay.” 

He almost makes it. His hands are shaking so badly by the time he gets to the second-to-last potsticker, he can’t keep the tension steady on the ends of the chopsticks, and the dumpling drops free and lands in the chili sauce. Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve’s stricken expression is echoed on his own face, because he’s seriously full now, and there’s nothing, literally nothing in the world, that he wants more right now than for Steve to put his big, warm hands on his aching belly and rub it, help him relieve some of the agonizing pressure. 

He almost changes his mind, almost takes Steve’s hands in his and presses them into his soft, abundant flesh, but Steve shakes his head, stands up. “Well,” he says. “Fair’s fair. Better luck next time, I guess.” His voice sounds choked, but his face is determined. 

“Next time,” Bucky says, weakly, slumping in his chair, miserably full, thumbing down the waistband of his sweats and doing his best to rub his hugely full belly himself. “You’ll do better next time.” 

*

It is both better and worse than before, when Steve jerks off after feeding Bucky. It’s better, because now the things that he’s imagining—Bucky growing bigger, stretching the confines of the hoodie he’d worn tonight, testing the limits of the fabric until he can’t zip it over the heavy, fat belly sitting squarely on his lap, weighing him down—aren’t just the stuff of fantasy but maybe a future he’ll actually get to experience. It’s worse, though, because Bucky, right this moment, is stuffed full of Chinese food, so bloated and overfed that his brow had been sweaty, his breath had been shallow and fast, and Steve _isn’t touching him_. 

Instead, Steve had dropped the fucking dumpling, and Bucky had gone to bed alone. It had been torture watching him go, watching as Bucky panted and gasped, pulling himself up off the couch like it was work, like every step toward the bedroom was a slow, lazy struggle. He’d tapped Steve on the shoulder as he went past, a gentle little pat that had left Steve so, so unsatisfied. 

It was the sexiest thing Steve had ever seen, watching Bucky stuff himself, knowing that Bucky was doing it for him. Now, alone in his stupid empty bedroom, all he can think is how he has to be better next time, has to be good, fuck, so good for Bucky, so, so good. He has to earn the right to touch Bucky’s full, stuffed belly—and god, that’s not all Steve wants. He wants to put his hands _everywhere_ , the soft curve of Bucky’s lower gut, the love handles that are starting to pillow over the sides of his waistband, the perfect, pudgy softness that clings to his pecs, and Jesus, Steve wants to _squeeze them_ , wants to shove Bucky’s tits together and bury his face in them, wants to explore the roll that’s developing around his waist, wants to kiss at his thick thighs and worship him all over. 

He wants—fuck, he wants so bad—for Bucky to pin him down, push him up against the wall until Steve’s held in place by Bucky’s gut, push him around and make Steve feel small, dominated, taken care of. God, it’s all he wants, and he strokes himself so hard it almost hurts, imagining it. 

It’s all almost too much to think about, but Steve can’t _stop_ thinking of it, can’t stop thinking about Bucky even bigger, even fatter, heavy with food and overindulgence. He wants to know what Bucky will look like when he eats so much he can’t get up for a while, can’t shove himself up off the couch but just has to lie there, tell Steve how to take care of him, let Steve be so good for him. 

Fuck. Steve doesn’t even try to swallow back his shout when he comes, Bucky’s name garbled in his mouth. 

*

Steve is up at six am the next morning, wide awake even though his sleep had been fitful at best. His dreams had been punctuated with images of Bucky, and an aching, driving need had kept him rolling restlessly between his sheets, grinding against the mattress at every turn. 

He doesn’t exactly sneak out of the apartment; Bucky sleeps so lightly now that Steve is fairly certain he couldn’t sneak out of his own room, let alone out the front door, without Bucky knowing. Still, he’s quiet about it, slipping out and down to the street in the early morning light, to the bakery on the next street over. He brings back a box of donuts—a dozen glazed, just like the ones he brought home the first morning Bucky was here. This time, though, he also cooks, scrambling a full dozen eggs and covering the entire mess with globs and globs of shredded cheddar cheese, and frying half a pound of bacon. 

It’s excessive. He knows it’s excessive. He’s a little embarrassed, like just the act of putting the meal on the table is sort of like the equivalent of screaming, “Bucky I want you so bad, I can’t stand it, please.” Of course, that _is_ what he’s doing, what he’s saying. 

Steve’s pouring his first cup of coffee when Bucky walks in, track pants slung low on his hips, t-shirt clinging obscenely to every chunky curve of his midsection. He’s moving a little slowly, metal hand resting on the underside of his tummy, like he’s cradling it a little, like it’s still tender. Steve figures it probably is; Bucky had eaten a massive amount of food last night, had eaten more than it seemed like should be possible. 

Steve can’t find his voice. He watches, frozen, as Bucky walks into the room, and the moment feels so fraught Steve can hardly stand it. Bucky, though, just walks over and smiles at him, gentle and easy, and runs his flesh hand lightly over Steve’s cheek. It’s the most intimately that Bucky’s ever touched him. “Look how good you are for me, Stevie.” 

It takes Steve’s breath away, and he sags forward just a little, like Bucky’s praise is a physical force on him. Bucky’s lip quirks up and he reaches out and catches Steve’s elbow with cold metal fingers, incongruously gentle. “Sit down, sweetheart.” 

So Steve sits, and Bucky ambles over to the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee. He moves easily, a wide and lazy kind of grace to his steps. When he gets to the table, he scoops about a quarter of the eggs and a few slices of bacon onto Steve’s plate and then unceremoniously dumps all the rest of it onto his own, sitting down heavily, belly a prominent swell under his t-shirt. 

Steve still can’t quite hold a conversation, only picking up the thread of it in fits and starts, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. They’re not that chatty in the mornings usually, anyway, so the silence doesn’t seem that out of place, except that it’s so loaded—the room feels like a tinderbox, like if you struck a match the whole thing would burst into flames. 

Bucky works quickly through the food on his plate, plowing through what must be at least eight eggs, all loaded with cheese, and nearly half a package of bacon like it’s nothing, even though his tummy is still visibly swollen from the night before. He’s starting to look almost obscene, he’s so bloated, his belly almost pregnant-looking, except—no. That’s not quite right. No matter how much the rounded curve of Bucky’s gut arches forward, six months pregnant at least, it also looks so unerringly, perfectly masculine. Steve can’t fucking stand it. 

“You ready to try again, pal?” 

Steve swallows hard, nodding and feeling suddenly, achingly vulnerable. Yes. Yes, he’s ready to try. 

Bucky jerks his head in the direction of the bakery box on the table. “You run out and get those this morning?” 

“Yes.” His voice comes out a croak, and Steve clears his throat. “Yes. Just plain glazed. A—a dozen.” 

Bucky gives him that same confident, knowing little smirk. “Good boy.” 

The praise should sound silly but it doesn’t, and Steve feels weirdly proud. “I—I want—can I?” Jesus. He’s _trying_. He knows Bucky wants him to say what he wants, but it’s so damn hard. 

“You want to feed them to me,” Bucky says, drawling the words out slow and soft. 

“Yes. Please.” 

“C’mon then,” Bucky says, and Steve follows him obediently to the living room. 

Bucky stretches out on the sofa, t-shirt riding up to reveal a few inches of belly fat, round and soft, over his waistband. He has to know the shirt has pulled up, but he doesn’t bother to tug it down, just lets his big belly hang out, over his waistband and spilling toward his lap. 

Steve isn’t really sure how to do this—feeding someone is weirdly awkward, intimate and personal, and his hands are a little shaky, his breathing a little erratic. 

Bucky eats the first donut in four big bites, running the tip of his tongue over Steve’s finger on the last one and sending a shock down Steve’s spine. 

It gets easier, then, and Steve finds that, by the time Bucky’s halfway through the box, he’s actually able to smile a little, to take full breaths. 

Bucky, however, is neither smiling nor breathing deeply. He’s intensely focused, left hand clamped tight to the side of his distended stomach, pushing on it occasionally as he eats, like he can rearrange all the food he’s stuffed inside it. His breathing is shallow again, like it was last night, as if he’s too full to expand his lungs. 

Steve almost asks if he wants to quit, if he’s too full to keep going, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Bucky just looks at him, nodding. “Another, Steve. You’re doing real good.” 

It nearly undoes him, those simple words. 

When there are three left, Bucky slows down considerably, shifting against the sofa a lot now, as if he can’t get comfortable no matter what he does. 

When he starts eating the eleventh donut, Bucky says, “Talk to me, pal. Tell me what you want after I finish this.” 

Steve blushes. He’s never been good at this—saying what he wants, admitting how much he wants it. 

“Say it, Steve. Say it right now, because I want you to. Because I’m telling you to say it.” 

When Bucky phrases it like that, it’s easier, somehow. “I want—I want you to finish these, and then I want to touch you like I wanted to last night.” Steve pauses, picking up the final donut and holding it out for Bucky to eat. 

“You want to touch me here?” Bucky asks, cupping his bloated gut, tapping lightly above his belly button. 

“Jesus, yes. Please, Buck, please, _please_.” He’s begging. That’s what he’s doing. Bucky groans, leaning forward a little and plucking the last, half-eaten donut from Steve’s waiting hand. “Fuck, Stevie,” he mumbles with his mouth full, chewing slowly, like it’s a struggle. “C’mere.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an obscene amount of sex. It's seriously almost all sex. Like 98% sex.

Steve follows Bucky into the bedroom, eyes drifting over the straining t-shirt, his stuffed and bloated gut rounding over the top of his track pants, and watches as he moves carefully across the room and sinks down onto the bed, reclines onto an elbow, legs spread wide, belly peeking out from underneath the hem of his t-shirt. Steve doesn’t think he’s seen anything hotter in his whole life; Bucky looks full, _so_ full, his belly plump and round and utterly inviting. 

Steve reaches out and accepts that invitation, sliding his hand under the cotton shirt, onto bare flesh, and he and Bucky both inhale sharply at the exact same moment. He glances up, and discovers that there is exactly one thing hotter than this, and it’s the way Bucky is looking at him, right now.

Bucky had been an outrageous flirt, once upon a time, all easy smiles and playful glances, but that lighthearted allure hadn’t survived the 20th century. This look is a dark, distant relative of that long-ago smile and wink, tinged with the watchful wariness that has marked Bucky’s demeanor ever since his escape from Hydra. Bucky’s eyes are the color of smoke, his smile one-sided and wistful, and it suddenly hits home that Bucky _wants_ him. He’s willing to do all this – eat Chinese food until he can’t hold another bite, allow Steve to feed him an entire box of donuts, endure this physical discomfort and its consequences – because Steve wants it, and Bucky wants Steve. There’s something both vulnerable and powerful in that look, and it makes Steve feel naked, like Bucky can see right into his heart. Steve catches his breath, hand stilling somewhere in the region of Bucky’s navel. He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat there. 

“That’s good,” Bucky says, covering Steve’s hand with his and pressing gently. “Feels nice.”

And oh, god, it really does, Steve thinks, as his hand sinks into the soft flesh. It feels fucking fantastic. He’s still sore from his marathon of self-gratification the night before, but his body obviously doesn’t give a damn; it’s ready, burning a hole in his pocket almost from the instant his hand makes contact with Bucky’s skin. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Steve whispers, dragging his gaze away guiltily. “You know it’s always been you, right Buck? It’s not just…it’s not just whatever this is?” 

Bucky leans forward, pushing his belly even farther forward into his lap, and pulls him up to sit next to him. 

“I can’t believe you think there’s a single goddamn thing you gotta explain to me,” he says, and kisses Steve softly on the lips. “You dope,” he adds, before kissing him again, longer and deeper and infinitely hotter, tongue sliding between Steve’s teeth. He tastes wonderful, coffee and donuts, the perfect way to start the day. Steve kisses him back fervently, opening his mouth and sucking on Bucky’s tongue, his full lower lip, one hand still cradling the soft swell of his belly. He can feel his own heart beating now, pounding in the vein at his temple, in his fingertips, like his skin just went thin all over. 

Bucky takes hold of Steve’s other hand, slides it down over the slope of his gut. Steve barely breaks the kiss, whispering against Bucky’s soft mouth, “You want me to -?”

“Want you to touch me,” Bucky says. “Like I said, it feels nice,” and he leans forward just enough to keep kissing Steve, cupping the back of his head with his flesh hand, holding him there, not that Steve minds. 

Steve is shaking, a little tremor taking up residence in his spine and sending vibrations down through his arms to his fingertips. He’s fantasized about this, this exact thing, so often over the last several weeks, he almost can’t believe it. 

He slides his hands over Bucky’s round gut, squeezing gently at the love handles that puff over the tight waistband of his track pants, then back up again, over his belly and up to his chest, which is getting a little pudgy, too – he can still feel the firm muscle underneath, but it’s padded over with handfuls of pillowy flesh, his nipples no longer flat discs but tiny peaks. Steve can imagine how they’d feel in his mouth, the slight give, the way they’d tighten up if he breathed on them. His mouth goes dry, and it’s completely unacceptable for Bucky to continue wearing this t-shirt for even another second. 

He slides his hand higher, drawing the hem up to the crest of Bucky’s gut. “Would you take this off? Please?” 

“You first,” Bucky says. 

“What?” 

“You want me to take something off, you have to take something off first,” Bucky says, smoothing his t-shirt down over his belly and cocking an eyebrow at Steve. “Fair’s fair.” 

Steve shrugs out of his t-shirt, self-conscious and uncertain, looking to Bucky for some sign of what to do next. 

Bucky’s looking at him in that way again, the way that says, loud as anything, _I want you,_ and Steve knows his own face is clear as glass, sending the same message right back. Slowly, like there’s no special hurry, Bucky heaves himself back up onto his feet, steps in close, between Steve’s knees at the edge of the bed, belly right at eye level, just touching Steve’s bare torso. He pulls the t-shirt off, still not hurrying, letting it fall to the floor. 

“That what you wanted, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice breaking, and he knows he sounds just as desperate as he feels, but he can’t help any of it. God, Bucky’s just so goddamn beautiful, thick everywhere; thick shoulders, rounded with the extra weight, thick chest, thick round belly, everything looking so plush and extravagantly curvy that Steve doesn’t think he could keep his hands off Bucky if his life depended on it. The metal arm only makes the physical changes more obvious; it had been built to resemble Bucky’s right arm in size, and the two no longer quite match. 

“Oh _god,_ Buck,” he whispers, hands running along the underside of his belly, where it’s smooth and soft as butter. “Look at you.” 

“There’s plenty to look at,” Bucky says, resting a hand on his gut, like he’s surprised by how big it looks. “Hard to believe I used to be smaller than you.” 

“Always liked it better when you were bigger,” Steve admits. “Back in the day – you were a little soft then, too. Not like this,” he slides a hand caressingly over Bucky’s middle, “But still. Always liked that.”

“Didn’t know you were noticing,” Bucky says.  “Did you think about me back then? Like you did last night?”

Steve looks away, embarrassed. “You don’t want to hear about that,” he says, his face going red, the flush spreading down his neck to his chest.

“Yes I do,” Bucky says. “Anything that makes you blush like that is something I want to hear.” He pushes Steve backward onto the bed and leans down on top of him, belly warm and plump against his abs, and the sensation of all that bare skin, the heavy heat of Bucky’s body pinning him down on the mattress, is almost more than Steve can take. His hips start to move, rubbing up against the soft, solid weight, and Bucky smiles, sliding one thigh between Steve’s legs, pulling him up flush against him, letting him enjoy a little friction. Steve groans and sinks his fingers into Bucky’s chubby sides.

“Talk, Rogers,” Bucky says, nibbling his earlobe, kissing along his neck. “C’mon. Tell me what you were thinking about last night when I heard you hollering my name into your pillow.”

“Oh _god,_ ” Steve says, feeling hot, much too hot, all his blood right on the surface. “Can’t.”

Bucky leans a little more of his weight down against Steve’s body, and it’s not too much, not even close, but Steve can feel his breath going shallow, like he might hyperventilate. 

“I’ll help you get started,” Bucky says, kissing Steve’s mouth, his chest, one nipple and then the other, working his way down Steve’s chest, to his flat, hard belly. “I’ll tell you what I was thinking about. I was thinking about this,” his hands slide up to frame Steve’s waist, “how small and narrow you are here, how fucking stacked you are, how all that lean muscle would look, getting pounded into the mattress, how much I want to kiss you and lick you and suck on your tits and put my cock in your mouth. I thought about what all that would feel like, Stevie, your goddamn hot, soft, wet mouth around me, your tongue moving on me, how you’d wrap those big strong arms around me and hold on for dear life, my hand in your hair, what it would feel like to fuck your mouth, baby, because I bet it would feel amazing.”

“ _God,_ Bucky,” Steve gasps, hips moving in openly wanton thrusts now, rubbing against Bucky’s hip, against his belly, because the wanting is too much, especially with Bucky saying this shit, just coming right out with it in that low, husky voice – it’s almost like Steve can _feel_ it. And he can absolutely feel how hot and hard Bucky is, his dick pressing up against Steve’s thigh. 

“Baby,” Bucky whispers against his skin, so Steve can feel it there, that little breathy endearment. “Talk to me. Be good, and tell me what you were thinking about.” 

“I-I was thinking about - _oh, Buck_ -” He loses it for a second, arches up toward Bucky’s body, wanting skin on skin, wanting the melting weight of him, the give of his soft, soft flesh. “Thinking – thinking about h-how _big_ you are, how - how round you are right here,” hands on Bucky’s belly, “how you looked last night when you finished dinner, so full you could hardly breathe, could hardly stand up, how you look whenever you eat, how much – how much bigger you’re gonna get if we -” He chokes, breaks off, too turned on by his own words to go on. “Buck – I’m gonna come in my pants if I keep talking,” he groans. “Maybe it would be better if I just showed you,” He’s never shucked himself out of his pants so fast in his life, kicks both his khakis and his boxers free and flops back on the bed, panting. 

Bucky steps aside, watching appreciatively as Steve slips out of the last of his clothes, and shrugs. “Give me a hand with these?” he says. “I’d take them off myself, but god,” he sits down on the bed, leans back on his elbows with a huff of breath at the shifting pressure on his stomach. “Feel like someone just fed me a dozen donuts. Kinda full.” He pats his belly, making it wobble, very slightly. Steve feels his cock jerk violently, feels the liquid heat of come leaking from the tip, and he squeezes a hand over it, shutting his eyes, grinding his jaw. 

“Christ, Buck,” he bites out, as he straddles Bucky’s legs and unties the drawstring around Bucky’s waist. His belly expands outward, freed from the constraint, and Steve drops kisses on it, licks inside Bucky’s navel, lets his tongue follow the little trail of dark hair down and down, shoving the track pants out of the way and sinking his head between Bucky’s legs, taking his cock into his mouth, sliding down the length of it, burying his nose in the soft hair at the base and inhaling, groaning, the top of his head bumping softly against Bucky’s belly, and hears the hiss of a sharply indrawn breath. His hands find Bucky’s belly again, like they’re drawn there by gravity, and he presses gently as he works up and down, inexpert but utterly committed.

“Stevie – Steve - _oh_ sweetheart, _baby_ , that’s so good, so good, so good,” Bucky says, and his hands – one unyielding and hard, the other gentle - sink into Steve’s hair as he thrusts a into Steve’s mouth, setting a rhythm that Steve follows instinctively, moving faster, loosening his jaw and taking him as far as he can. He makes tiny little sounds in the back of his throat, sinking Bucky deep and swallowing against the head of his cock, making him moan and squirm and pant and gasp. “Gonna...gonna make me come, baby,” Bucky groans, but Steve doesn’t pull off, he just slips his hands under Bucky’s fuller, rounder ass and squeezes, pulling him up closer, taking him deeper, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, sliding his tongue against the slit, letting it get sloppy, not even caring that he’s right on the verge himself, just from touching Bucky’s fat belly, just from _talking_ about it. 

Bucky’s cock burns hot in Steve’s mouth, and he feels it when he comes, hips jerking against Steve’s face, a taste of sea water and earth filling Steve’s mouth, and Bucky shudders as Steve moans against his flesh again, not releasing him until he’s utterly spent, belly heaving with the effort. He pulls off only when he feels the blood-hot flesh start to soften, only when Bucky tugs on his arm, urging him up.

“Get up on me, honey,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve straddles him again, dripping cock pressed to soft underbelly, and barely moves his hips three times before he comes, sharp and hard, body wracked with the force of it, breath coming in little hiccupping sobs. 

“Buck,” Steve whispers, hips still pressed into him, slick and spent and gasping. “M’sorry – I-”

“Hush,” Bucky says, tugging him down beside him, ignoring the mess, pulling Steve in close, kissing his face, his mouth, his cheek. “You were perfect,” he whispers into Steve’s ear. “You were so, so good, baby, nothing to apologize for.”

“But -”

“You gonna tell me that wasn’t what you wanted?” Bucky asks, holding his chin and kissing him again. “You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it,” Steve says with absolute, perfect honesty. 

“So did I,” Bucky says, smoothing Steve’s ruffled hair. “So beautiful, so good. So perfect.”

Steve tangles his legs with Bucky’s, wraps an arm around his thickening waist, and rests his head on Bucky’s broad, soft chest. He feels safe, and looked after, and completely exhausted, and he wishes he could stay right here, like this, forever.

*

Bucky isn’t sure if it’s normal, the things that he and Steve do. 

Well, he knows that the food—the excessive, gluttonous, extreme amounts of food—isn’t probably normal. He doesn’t remember everything about the women he dated before the war, or the sex he’d had as the Winter Soldier, but he remembers enough to know that none of that sex had involved him eating a platter of cheeseburgers and a tray of French fries, chasing it all down with chocolate milkshakes until he was gasping for air and wheezing with the pressure on his gut, feeling like he was about to explode and calling it foreplay. 

But it’s not the food thing, really, that has him concerned. He likes food, likes the way it feels to be stuffed so full his stomach feels like a lead weight sitting in his lap, heavy and aching. He likes the way Steve looks at him when he does it, like Bucky is every dirty thought he’s ever had writ large. He likes the way it feels when Steve puts his big, all-American hands on Bucky’s distended belly and pushes. He likes all of it, and he doesn’t really give a shit if it’s weird. 

The part about telling Steve what to do? About taking care of him? About wanting to hold him, control him, pet him, be _in charge_ of him? That part is what, sometimes, worries him a little. 

On one hand, it seems as normal as breathing, taking care of Steve. He’s been doing it since they were kids, since Steve was a slim little whippet of a boy, so pretty and fine-boned that he’d been mistaken for a girl sometimes, no matter how often Steve had squared his shoulders and his jaw, ready to fight the world. It had made sense, then, that Bucky would take care of Steve. Fight his battles for him, keep him safe, rub Vicks on his chest when he was sick and his ma was at work. It had been good and right. 

Now? Now Bucky wonders, maybe, if part of the reason he likes to be in charge with Steve is because he remembers what it was like to _not_ be in charge. He remembers what it was like to be the fist of Hydra, when none of his decisions, no matter how small, were his own. 

He wonders if maybe that’s why it make his dick throb, hard and dangerous, every time Steve gets on his knees for Bucky, looks up at him with those guileless blue eyes that say, “I trust you, I love you, I would walk into hell for you if you only gave the word.” It’s heady stuff, to have that much control. 

But maybe it’s even worse than that. Maybe Bucky likes power not because he remembers having none of it when he was the Winter Soldier. Maybe he just likes power because he likes it. He remembers the easy authority he’d had before the war, the power the world handed him for no reason at all except that he was handsome, had wide eyes and a cocky smile that made everyone want to do what he said. Maybe he just likes it. 

*

In another week, Bucky can’t button any of his jeans at all, no matter how much he tugs on them. When Steve notices, sees that Bucky is leaving the tabs gaping open under his big belly, his eyes get dark, and he nuzzles up against Bucky, like he can’t resist him, like he wants nothing more than to rub up on him like a cat in heat. 

That night, belly bloated up round and tight with spring rolls, pho, and mounds of fragrant rice from the Vietnamese place down the street, Bucky takes Steve to bed and pulls him close, kissing him just to do it, just for the slow, easy intimacy of it. 

They make out like teenagers, until Steve is rutting up against Bucky’s thigh, desperate and breathless. 

Bucky gently, firmly pushes him away and hoists himself up until he’s sitting leaned against the headboard. “Look what happened, pal,” Bucky says, as if Steve doesn’t already know, lifting up his fat stomach to reveal the unfastened button on his jeans. 

“Jesus,” Steve says, breath hitching as his hands come out and push against the soft, yielding dough of Bucky’s lower belly. “You’re—you’re getting big, Buck.”

Bucky nods, drumming metal fingers against the side of his gut. “You like it, Stevie?”

“You know I do.” Steve’s breath hitches, and Bucky smiles. 

“I know you do.”

Bucky doesn’t fuck him that night; he won’t, won’t give Steve any more than his fingers, no matter how much Steve begs. And god, does he ever beg. 

Bucky won’t, though. He just lets Steve plead, savoring every moment: the way that Steve’s cheeks flush so sweetly pink, the way that his hands shake a little, the way his whole strong, perfect body vibrates with tension. Steve winds himself up so prettily, moaning and begging, and Bucky guides him through every word, asking Steve what he likes, what he wants, what it is about Bucky’s big fat gut that turns him on so much. And all the while he’s fingering him open, letting Steve ride his hand. 

“I don’t—I don’t _know_ , Bucky, Jesus,” he says, nearly screaming the words, desperate and clingy.

Bucky stops dead in his tracks, freezing completely with three metal fingers up Steve’s ass. “Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I think you do know. I think you know, and I need you to tell me. Tell me why you like this, Stevie, why you want me to be such a fucking fatass, why you need me to have this big fat tummy wobbling around in front of me. I know you like it, but I want to know _why_. Tell me, Stevie. Tell me.” He pauses, still unmoving. “If you don’t tell me, I won’t keep fingering you, Stevie. If you want that, if you want me, you need to talk.”

“I love it!” Steve yelps out, voice cracking. “Please, Buck, please—I just, I can’t—I want you to make me feel small, want you to tell me what to do, maybe. Want you to”—Steve’s voice cuts out for a moment when Bucky starts moving his hand again—“Oh, _Jesus, want you to do what makes _you_ feel good, Buck. Want to see you eat because you want to do it, want to get on my knees for you because that’s what you want, take whatever you give me, oh, Buck, _oh_. Want you bigger than me, want you heavier than me, want you to push me around, oh, _shit_ , Buck.” _

Bucky swallows hard, reaching his flesh hand around and grabbing Steve’s cock, already damp with precome. “That was so good, sweetheart. That was exactly what you were supposed to do. So good, honey, doing what I told you.”

The praise, the contact, Bucky’s metal fingers curling against his prostate—combined, it all has Steve writhing, pupils blown, eyes wide and unfocused. On impulse, Bucky says, “You wanna come now, Steve? You ready?”

“Oh god, oh, please, oh please oh please oh please—“

“Come—come for me right now, baby.”

*

When Bucky does fuck Steve for the first time, it’s Steve who has to do all the work. Bucky’s too full, too lazy, too stuffed with crispy fried chicken and biscuits, topped off with a carton of ice cream, to do much except lie back and give directions. 

Luckily, Steve excels at following orders. 

So Bucky gives them, telling Steve precisely how he wants him, telling Steve exactly how he should prep himself, how Steve should straddle Bucky’s lap and ride him. Bucky doesn’t move at all, other than reaching up to position Steve the way he wants, shifting him a little bit this way or that, posing him carefully, like Steve is the world’s prettiest, most muscular rag doll. 

Steve rides him slow, the way Bucky tells him to. Steve is gentle, almost careful, and Bucky puffs and pants under him, under the weight of his own distended belly. 

“Oh, Buck—Bucky, oh,” Steve says, and he is babbling and desperate almost from the moment he pushes himself down on Bucky’s cock. 

“That’s good, sweetheart.” Bucky pulls Steve forward just a bit, until Steve is grinding his own cock into Bucky’s fat stomach. “That’s just right.”

“You feel so good, so good, Bucky—Jesus, so good.”

“My cock inside you or my gut against you?”

“Both. God, it’s both, it’s both.” Steve keens a little. “It’s you, Buck. It’s you.” 

*

“Hey,” Steve says, walking into the apartment with a bag tucked under his arm and a look on his face that is equal parts guilty and thrilled. 

“Hey yourself. Whatcha got there, honey?”

Steve’s cheeks flare up beautifully. “Uh—so. I got a—got a scale?” 

Bucky, currently sprawled on the couch with his jeans unbuttoned and his t-shirt tugged up to expose a few inches of bare gut, is wrist-deep in a bag of Cheetos. “Oh did you, now?” 

“I thought.” Steve swallows, clearly fighting the urge to stammer. “I thought we could weigh you.” 

“You thought so, huh?” Bucky can’t quite hide the grin that’s tugging at the corner of his lips. He palms the side of his fat belly and gives it a little wobble, shoving another handful of Cheetos into his mouth. “What, you think I’m getting fat or something?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and comes over to plop down next to him, sticking a finger right into the soft, flabby underbelly that Bucky’s too-small t-shirt is revealing. “No, course not,” he says, giving Bucky the sweetest smile you could ask for. 

“Why do you want to know, sweetheart?” Bucky clears his throat, lets his voice drop a little, the way he knows Steve loves when Bucky’s telling him what to do. “Tell me why you want me to get on that scale, Stevie. Tell me _exactly_ why.”

“I want—I want to know how big you’ve gotten,” Steve says in a rush. “You keep getting bigger, Buck—god, you keep getting fatter, all the time—and I want to know how much. Want to see the number.”

Bucky grins. Steve Rogers is a lot of things, but stupid ain’t one of them. He’s a quick learner, and he’s getting remarkably good at taking direction, even when it means confessing all of his fantasies to Bucky, verbalizing all the things he wants from Bucky. It’s beautiful, watching him trust Bucky with all that desire.

Bucky wipes his cheese-dust-covered hand on his jeans and heaves himself up off the couch, aware of how big he feels, of how it’s getting harder to balance with such a fat belly to carry around in front of him, throwing off his stride.

“Come on, then.” 

Steve unpacks the scale and sets it down on the bathroom floor with a weird kind of reverence, and Bucky remembers, suddenly, what Steve had looked like as an altar boy, eighty-odd years ago. That same rapt, wondrous expression had colored his features at mass, like he truly believed something wonderful was about to happen. 

Bucky’s never been loved like Steve loves him. Steve loves Bucky like he loves _God_. 

“How—how much did you weigh when you got here?” Steve asks, pretty white teeth worrying his bottom lip a little. 

Bucky shrugs. Fuck if he knows. His jeans had been tight, he remembers, pinching at his waist and around his thighs, across his ass. “Maybe 200?” He shrugs again, lifting one vicious metal shoulder in a weirdly delicate gesture. “I don’t know. Don’t remember.” 

Steve nods. “200 seems about right.”

Bucky takes a step forward, but Steve reaches out and grabs him. “Not with your jeans and stuff on.”

Bucky raises his eyebrow. “No?”

“It won’t be accurate.”

“I have an enormous hunk of metal instead of a left arm, Steve. Accuracy is a relative concept.” Bucky doesn’t even pretend he’s not going to comply, though. He’s already undressing, tugging his t-shirt over his head and shimmying out of his jeans. When he’s down to his boxers, he steps on. 

“Read it for me, Stevie,” Bucky says, patting his stomach. “I can’t see it.”

It’s weirdly hot, what they’re doing—Bucky’s cock is hard, tenting out the front of his boxers. It’s not exactly because he’s excited to see how fat he’s gotten, although he is curious. But that’s not what has him turned on. It’s Steve, it’s the way he’s looking at Bucky like Bucky’s giving him some great gift, like this is almost unbelievable. 

“2—uh, 253,” Steve stutters. 

Bucky whistles. “Well, shit.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes interact with various Avengers, Bucky eats, and there is a lot of really nice menswear involved. Also sex.

Steve had all but dropped off the face of the earth since Bucky had arrived, acting like the outside world didn’t exist; but of course it does, and there are people in it who were bound to miss him sooner or later. So when Sam calls, Steve’s glad to hear from him, of course he is, but he can’t help but feel little reluctant to leave the cocoon of food and sex he and Bucky have been reveling in for the last few months. 

“I’m in town for a few days, thought we could get together,” Sam says. “Nat’s here, too, and Clint, and Stark, they’d all like to see you. Tony suggested Petaluma, maybe Orso? Tomorrow night?” 

“You want us to go to Manhattan?” Steve asks, looking across the sofa at Bucky. He’s reclined against the cushions in his pajamas, sipping sweet, creamy coffee, pajama pants tied loosely under the round ball of his belly, t-shirt barely covering him. Steve’s heart instantly starts to beat faster, and he wonders if he’ll ever get over the sight of him. 

“Who is it?” Bucky asks quietly. 

“Sam,” Steve whispers, hand over the bottom of the phone. 

“What does he want?” 

“Wants to know if we want to go to dinner tomorrow.” 

Bucky gestures for Steve to come closer, so Steve scoots across the sofa, and Bucky pulls him into his lap. He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand, kisses Steve tenderly on the mouth, and murmurs in his ear, “You wanna go?” 

Steve nods. “I’d like to see them,” he says, the hand not holding the phone finding its way under Bucky’s shirt. 

“The let’s go have dinner with your friends. Sounds nice. But I’m not going to Manhattan,” Bucky adds, removing his hand from the phone. 

“What?” Sam asks, obviously confused. “Hello?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Bad reception. What’d you say?” 

“I said go ahead and bring Bucky, if he’s up for it. I mean, no lie, he’s a fucking terrifying motherfucker, I’m scared to death of him, but he’s your friend. So as long as he’s not going to stab anybody, bring him, come on.” 

“Okay, but we’re still not coming to Manhattan. You guys are gonna have to cross the bridge.”

*

“The thing is,” Steve says, a little while later, when all the details have been worked out, “you don’t have anything to wear.” 

“I know,” Bucky says, stretching lazily, exposing still more rounded flesh between his pants and the hem of his shirt. “It’s almost like someone _wants_ me to keep outgrowing all my clothes.” 

“Hmmm. I guess we’ll have to go shopping again.” Steve caresses Bucky’s belly thoughtfully, holds it between his hands. “Wonder what size you’ll be now.” 

“I bet you do,” Bucky says. 

“Bet you’re a 38 in pants now, at least.” 

“At least,” Bucky agrees. “I guess this place is a jacket-and-tie kind of deal?” 

“The River Café? Yeah, it’s fancy. Nice, though, right by the bridge, at Fulton Ferry. Tony likes to be able to see Manhattan, even if he can’t actually be there.” 

“Then I’m going to need a suit. And if we’re going to get all 253 fuckin’ pounds of me into it, we’re going to need a tailor.”

*

It costs a premium to have a suit tailored overnight, even in Brooklyn, but it’s worth it, Bucky thinks, for the effect it has on Steve. He’s taken up residence on a little settee in the waiting area, ignoring the neatly stacked issues of _GQ, Fantastic Man, Esquire, Inventory_ and _Pause_ that occupy every flat surface in the shop. 

He focuses his attention instead on Bucky, and the quiet conversation taking place with the tailor. 

“Now, we can go with the 40s and let them out just a smidge, if you think that would be best,” the tailor says, tactfully, his measuring tape crossed neatly over the fullest point of Bucky’s belly, his expression carefully uncritical. “Or we could go with the 42s and take them in, which would leave a little extra fabric to play with, should the, ah, need arise.” 

Bucky can actually hear Steve’s sharp intake of breath. “Probably a good idea to go with the 42s,” he says, resignedly. 

“Excellent. And if I might suggest suspenders, instead of a belt? That would allow the trousers to accomplish a more elegant drape.” He smooths a hand down the front of Bucky’s body in illustration, skimming his belly, and Bucky glances over at Steve. 

“I think we’ve got that covered, actually,” Bucky says, winking at Steve and enjoying his answering blush. “Can you add buttons to these?” He touches a hand to the waistband of the slacks, super 150s wool in a fine dark charcoal hue. 

“Naturally,” the tailor says. “And we’ve already discussed the slight adjustments to the jacket, so I believe all that’s left is the matter of shirts and ties.” 

The tailor keeps glancing over at Steve, who is looking undeniably gorgeous in a simple black sweater over a white t-shirt and chinos; he’d probably love to dress him. Steve would look unbelievable in just about anything. 

“What’re you planning to wear, Steve?” Bucky asks. 

“I’ve got a suit,” Steve says. 

“Let’s get you a better one.”

*

The suit Bucky chooses for Steve really does look good on him, even Steve has to admit it. It’s dark blue, with a faint chalk stripe. The cut is modern, with slim trousers and a fitted jacket, and the tailor proffers a boldly printed geometric tie that looks terrible by itself, but wonderful once it comes into contact with the suit. The fit is almost perfect, right off the rack. 

“It’ll barely take any alteration at all,” the tailor’s assistant had said, a little breathlessly. “I think you’re as close as anyone can possibly be to Tom Ford’s notion of the ideal male proportions.” Buck had raised an eyebrow at the rather indecent amount of time the assistant had taken measuring Steve’s inseam, and Steve had fought down the urge to squirm at the sight of Bucky idly flipping through the latest issue of _Esquire_ , the magazine propped on his belly, shooting amused glances over the top of the page. 

Bucky hadn’t even batted an eye at the outrageous price tag; his year away from Hydra had been spent, in part, appropriating funds from their various global operational accounts, and Steve can’t help but think it’s small enough reparation for what they’d put him through. 

“Might as well blow the whole thing on fancy suits for you,” he’d said, as they’d headed home with their purchases. “It’s practically a community service, you’re like a goodwill ambassador to the tailors of the world. Did you see the expressions on their faces when you tried it on?” 

Steve had only seen the expression on Bucky’s face, and that had been goodwill enough for him. But he doesn’t get to see Bucky in his completed suit until they’re finally ready to go - and then, he wishes it weren’t too late to cancel their plans. 

The charcoal suit is understated, and does nothing to disguise Bucky’s overall size. He looks _big_ , the suit jacket placing the emphasis on the breadth of his shoulders, the trousers breaking at the exact correct point above his shoes. The color brings out the blue in his eyes and the warmth in his chestnut hair, which is pulled back in an artfully messy little knot, and the cut of the jacket conceals the contours of his belly without doing anything to hide the fact that it’s there. 

The jacket is single-breasted, and Bucky’s buttoned the top button, the other left unfastened. When he walks, the jacket slides, ever-so-slightly, to reveal the underside of his belly, the shape just discernible, clad in bright white Egyptian cotton. It takes Steve’s breath away. With the jacket on and the button fastened, he can’t see the suspenders, but he knows they’re there, and that isn’t helping his composure any, either. 

“You, um, you look…” Steve swallows hard. “Incredible.” 

“And you’ve never looked prettier,” Bucky murmurs, moving in close to tie Steve’s four-in-hand for him. Steve could’ve done it himself, of course, but likes it when Bucky does it, his belly brushing up against Steve’s abs as he tightens the knot and makes a few minute adjustments to Steve’s collar. 

“You sure you want to go?” Steve asks. 

“I’m sure. Look at you, how am I supposed to resist showing you off?” 

“Look at _you,_ ” Steve says, sliding his hand into the jacket, but Bucky catches his hand, kisses it, and smiles.

“Try to keep your hands to yourself,” he says. “At least until we get home.”

*

 _It’s going to be a long evening,_ is all Steve can think, as he and Bucky follow the host to their table. Tony, as usual, has booked the best table in the house, right next to the huge windows with the famous view of the Manhattan skyline, and there are already several bottles of wine open on the table. 

“It must be so frustrating, living over here, with the pinnacle of culture and technology right there in in sight, but forever out of reach,” Tony says, pouring wine into glasses and passing them around. “But the two of you seem happy enough. Nice of you to join us, and to mention the existence of your friend, here, by the way,” he adds, passing Steve his glass with a pointed look. “I thought we were close. I’d say something about the cold shoulder but that would probably be insensitive, right? If I said I felt like I was being frozen out?” 

“It would,” Steve says, but good-naturedly. “Look, I’m sorry. I hunted through my Emily Post, but she doesn’t address the proper etiquette for introducing friends from multiple time periods after misunderstandings involving assassination attempts.” 

“It’s probably in the updated edition,” Sam says. “Glad to meet you, Barnes. Any friend of Steve’s.” 

Conversation flows more easily from that point forward, but at least half of Steve’s attention is absorbed by the fact that Bucky’s jacket, which he’d unbuttoned when they’d first been seated, now hangs open just far enough for him to make out one of the straps of his suspenders, tracing up one side of his belly. He tries to keep his gaze focused on his companions, or the view, but every time Bucky moves, or speaks, Steve’s eyes are drawn back to that black arc of elastic, to the slight wrinkle in Bucky’s shirt just below his softening pecs, to the way the fabric of his shirt clings, just a little, across the widest part of his belly. 

“I’ve heard good things about the tasting menu,” Tony says. “Everyone game? It’s six courses, kind of a lot of food.” 

“Count us in,” Bucky says, setting his menu down.

*

The tasting menu isn’t just a lot of food; it’s an _epic_ amount of food. There’s _foie gras_ and seared tuna steak and Welsh rarebit and Chesapeake oysters; there are salads and soups and small plates of bite-sized soufflés. There are duck breasts, dumplings, and drunken prawns; flank steak and cheese plates and stuffed dates. Steve discreetly pushes bits of his own food onto Bucky’s plate, and Natasha joins in around the fourth course, smiling cryptically at the two of them as she shoves her cheese plate in front of Bucky. “Enjoy,” she says to Steve, pouring herself another glass of wine. 

The final course arrives, and it’s almost too pretty to eat; it’s the café’s signature dessert, a chocolate Brooklyn Bridge - a slice of chocolate mousse torte supporting a superstructure of chocolate ganache in the shape of the iconic bridge that arches majestically into the night sky outside. It’s accompanied by vanilla ice cream, raspberry sorbet, and a wafer of crisp meringue. Everyone except Steve and Bucky groans at the sight of it. 

“The mind is willing,” Natasha says, pushing her plate away. “But the flesh is weak. I can’t eat another bite.” 

Tony is the only person besides Bucky who’s still eating. 

“How do you do it?” Sam asks, shoving his own plate away. “For a tiny little dude, you can throw down at the dinner table, man.” 

“The secret is growing up in a Jewish family,” Tony explains. “Our holidays go on for days; I’ve been training for this since the cradle. The other secret is Pilates. Which - maybe you want to give that a try, big guy,” this last directed at Bucky, who’s already finished his own dessert and is working on Steve’s. 

“Careful, Stark,” Natasha says. “He’s got a steak knife over there.” 

“Hey, I’m just saying, you might want to think about fitting back into that cute little black strappy number at some point.” 

“I’m retired,” Bucky says easily, turning to look at Steve. “Do you think I need Pilates? Whatever that is?” He leans back, just slightly, letting his belly stick out just a little more. He’s breathing carefully, and there’s been enough time between courses for digestion to alleviate some of the pressure, but Steve can see how full he is, how much tighter the waistband of his new trousers is than when they’d arrived. 

“Um, no,” Steve says, two little spots of color appearing high up on his cheeks. “I think you’re perfect the way you are.” Beneath the table, where no one can see, Bucky takes his hand and presses it to his belly, firm and full of food, and their eyes meet. 

“That’s adorable,” Clint says. “Aren’t they adorable, Nat?” 

“They are,” Natasha agrees, and they clink their glasses together. “So when’s the wedding?” 

“Oh shit. You’re kidding me. Seriously?” Tony stares back and forth between Steve and Bucky, almost accusingly. “You know, most of your fellow members of the greatest generation would have us believe that homosexuality didn’t even exist until 1969.” He turns to Sam. “Did you know about this?” 

“Not officially,” Sam says, smiling at Steve apologetically. “But it’s not exactly a surprise, either.” 

“We’re not-” Steve starts, but he closes his mouth abruptly, and looks back at Bucky, who shrugs. “Well, we _are,_ ” Steve says. “But we’re not getting married, you guys.” 

“You’re already married,” Sam says, laughing. “It just hasn’t sunk in yet.”

*

On the way out of the restaurant, Bucky glances next door, to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, with a look that is part longing and part utter shamelessness. He doesn’t even look over at Steve, just waits, and of course Steve can’t help himself and asks in his most innocent Captain America voice, “You want some ice cream?”

Tony and Clint flash mutual expressions of horror, and even Sam shakes his head. “Nope, no fucking way, no one can possibly want ice cream,” he says. 

Bucky gets an argumentative look on his face, but before he can say anything, Natasha is nodding. “I’ll tag along,” she says. 

Clint gives her a look. “You want ice cream? Right now?”

“Nope. But I want to go if they’re going.” She gives Steve a wide, slightly predatory grin, and Steve promptly blushes and looks away—but not before he watches Natasha turn her gaze on Bucky, who just stares right back at her, belligerent and a little smug. 

In the end, Clint puts his foot down and drags Natasha back to Manhattan with everyone else, but she has the gall to whisper, “Have fun with the ice cream, buddy,” into Steve’s ear when she gives him a goodbye peck on the cheek. 

“I think she wanted to watch you eat ice cream,” Steve says, part flustered and part strangely proud, as they walk inside the shop and get in line. 

“Yeah, well, it’s something to see,” Bucky says, resting one hand on his lower back and arching it a little, like he’s sore, carrying around that big belly. “You jealous, Rogers?”

“That someone else wants to watch you eat ice cream?” Steve smiles a little. “I don’t know, I did think I was probably the only person who got off on that particular thing.”

Bucky shrugs his left shoulder, its menace disguised under the perfect cut of his suit jacket. “I don’t think she gets off on that, particularly. I think she just gets off on weird shit.”

“Is this weird shit?”

Bucky gives him a very serious look. “Well, I just ate a huge meal, the better part of two desserts, and I’m getting ready to order a triple cone. What do you think?”

“It’s not that weird,” Steve says. 

They make it up to the counter, and Bucky orders a waffle cone with scoops of chocolate, coffee, and butter pecan. Steve, struck with a fit of inspiration, orders a large vanilla milkshake. 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Seriously, you’re gonna drink that?”

Steve does his best not to blush, and only fails a little. “I thought you might want it.”

Bucky clucks his tongue and shakes his head, like Steve is a wayward child. “And you say this ain’t weird, pal.”

By the time Bucky finishes his ice cream cone—managing to drip melted ice cream down his hand only twice, which Steve found both endearing and achingly sexy—Steve’s dick is throbbing, and he’s wishing he hadn’t let Bucky pick out such slim fitting trousers for him. 

Bucky shoves the last bite of the cone into his mouth and leans back, resting one hand on the broad side of his tummy, his unbuttoned suit jacket open wide. He hiccups twice, wincing each time when his gut jumps a little under his hand. “Well, Rogers, pass it over,” he says, extending his hand toward Steve’s milkshake in a grabby motion. 

“You sure?” Steve wants nothing more than for Bucky to drink the damn milkshake, but he looks _full_. 

Bucky scoffs. “Of course I’m sure. I got this.”

And he does. He finishes every last creamy, perfect drop, sucking on the straw until his chubby cheeks hollow out. 

“Hurts, baby,” he says, voice low, as he nears the end. His cheeks are slightly flushed, like he’s just climbed a few flights of stairs, and his breath is shallow and fast. 

“You okay?” Steve itches to scoot over until they’re close enough that he can lay his hands on Bucky’s big belly, push and knead until Bucky’s not in pain. God, the black lines of Bucky’s suspenders are framing his fat tummy, and all Steve wants is to slide his hands beneath those strips of elastic. 

Bucky nods, scrubbing his flesh hand across his brow. “Gonna need you to do the work when we get home, though.”

Steve grins. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Didn’t think it would be, sweetheart.”

*

Bucky is panting a little when he gets up the stairs to the apartment, and he feels a little embarrassed, a little guilty, a lot horny. It’s a strange thing, to have gone from being Hydra’s assassin, a finely honed weapon, to someone who can’t get up two flights of stairs without being out of breath. Of course, his current breathlessness has more to do with having stuffed himself so full he can barely breathe than with his actual physical fitness—but still. It’s a little disconcerting, panting like this. It’s a little exciting. It feels reckless, rebellious, like a giant middle finger to Hydra and SHIELD and the whole fucking lot of them. It feels like freedom.

They head straight for the bedroom the moment Steve gets the door unlocked, and Bucky barely takes the time to lay his suit jacket over the dresser before he eases himself back onto the bed, moving gingerly, in deference to his very full, audibly digesting belly. The milkshake was excessive—all that sugar and fat is sitting in his middle like a bomb, heavy and a little painful. The waistband of his pants feels too tight, like the 42s still aren’t enough room, not with all that food sloshing around inside him. He feels swollen and full, heavy all over. 

“You look so damn gorgeous,” Steve says, eyes moving all over Bucky’s body, like Bucky is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

And it’s funny—Bucky’s pretty self-aware. He knows how he must look right now, belly bloated with food, testing the limits of his brand new clothes, whole body soft from his double chin to his thick thighs. He’s a little sweaty, both from the exertion of eating far too much and then the climb up the apartment steps. He feels fat and lazy, out of shape and exposed. 

On the other hand, though, Steve is looking at him like he hung the moon, and that kind of admiration does a lot for a person’s self esteem. So Bucky can’t really say that he minds being fat, minds carrying around a big, round gut—not when it feels this good to eat, and Steve is going to reward him for it by practically falling at his feet. 

“Come here, Steve. Get undressed first, baby. Everything off.”

Steve is already complying as he’s walking across the room to join Bucky, stripping gracefully out of his suit as he moves. He doesn’t even hesitate when he gets down to his boxers, just shoves them down and off, too, before climbing onto the bed. 

“Good boy,” Bucky says, and Steve squirms under the praise, somehow managing to look small again, all six feet, two inches and 220 pounds of him. 

He sprawls out next to Bucky, sliding fingers between the straps of Bucky’s suspenders and the taut fabric of his shirt, snapping the elastic gently against Bucky’s stomach. “Love these, Buck. Look so good on you.” 

Bucky huffs out a little breath of laughter. “Yeah? Those really do it for you?” 

Steve nods, running his hand almost reverently over Bucky’s belly, skating from one suspender strap to the next, tracing the slightly strained buttons of his shirt. “Looks so good, around your belly like this.” 

“Well get your fill of lookin’ at them, honey,” Bucky says sweetly. “I want to get out of this suit.” He tugs at his waistband. 

“Too tight?” Steve asks, smiling as he slips a finger between Bucky’s fat lower belly and his waistband. 

“Can barely breathe,” Bucky admits, watching Steve’s expression, the way his pupils are dilated with arousal. “Just—just unbutton them for me, Steve. And my shirt, too.”

Steve complies, like he was born to take orders. Bucky shrugs his shoulders out of the suspenders, groaning with the effort of it, and lifts his hips a little, so that Steve can tug his trousers down—taking Bucky’s boxer briefs right along with them, bless him. It’s still a bit of a shock, seeing how much Steve wants to do what Bucky says, how much he wants Bucky to give him instructions. There are parts of this thing that has sprung up between them that remind Bucky viscerally of Steve from before the war—the way Steve had looked to Bucky for comfort, for protection, for support. 

He’d always thought of himself as Steve’s champion, his protector, and he’d loved the way Steve had both accepted and expected it of him, all while challenging him at every turn. It’s like that, sort of, now, too. Steve takes direction from Bucky like it’s his mission in life, complying instantly, beautifully, like it’s not just a sexual thrill but a source of actual, bone-deep pleasure. In the same breath, though, he questions, teases, pushes—same old Steve Rogers, never knowing when to quit. It’s utterly fucking charming, and it’s the reason Bucky had chugged down that damn milkshake tonight. He’d been stuffed beyond full already, stomach creaking with the pressure of having carelessly shoved way too much expensive food into it, but one look at Steve’s expression when he’d bought the milkshake—slightly embarrassed, mostly eager, a little reckless—had been all the confirmation Bucky had needed that yes, he was going to swallow down every creamy, hand-churned drop. 

The truth is that Steve has more power over Bucky than Bucky has over Steve, even if it might look, to an outsider, like Steve is taking the orders. 

Bucky inhales, and it’s easier to breathe now, free from the unforgiving buttons of his suit, the pinching waistband of his trousers. He still can’t get anywhere near a full breath, though. His stomach is packed too tightly; there’s just no room for his lungs to expand. 

Steve’s big, pretty hands, strong and long-fingered, are on his gut, pressing and rubbing, and Steve has an expression of almost holy reverence on his face, like Bucky—fat, swollen, glutted Bucky—is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Get the lube,” Bucky says eventually, when Steve’s rubbed his belly long enough that he can breathe beyond panting, when he’s starting to notice his own erection, pinned against Steve’s muscular thigh. He can’t see it—all he can see is the mound of his gut, Steve’s hands moving on him with a touch that is both sexual and soothing—but he can feel it, is starting to roll his hips up, just a little. 

Steve obediently fishes out a tube of Astroglide from the night stand, and Bucky takes a moment, however brief, to admire the sheer ingenuity of shit that’s available in 2016. He remembers, rather fondly, the jar of Vaseline he kept stashed under the mattress in the apartment he shared with Steve all those years ago. Things have improved tremendously on that front—although he thinks at some point he ought to jerk Steve off with Vaseline, thick and viscous, just for old time’s sake. 

Steve starts to hand the tube to Bucky, but Bucky shakes his head. “You have to do the work, remember, sweetheart?” He reaches back for the headboard and pulls himself up into a sitting position, grunting with the effort of it, the pressure on his overfed belly. He pulls Steve along with him, smiling a little at the way Steve shamelessly shifts his hips forward, pushing his pretty cock into the soft, fat lower curve of Bucky’s stomach.

“Can you do that for me, baby? Open yourself up for me?” Bucky’s just letting his mouth run, mostly. Steve responds so beautifully to it, Bucky talking. “I want to see you do it, Stevie, wanna watch you ride your own fingers.”

Steve’s big blue eyes are dark, nearly all pupil, and he doesn’t even blush, just dumps lube out onto his fingers and shifts his weight, reaching awkwardly behind himself. God, he’s gorgeous; he doesn’t look _real_ , his perfect tiny waist and achingly visible musculature, acres of golden skin. 

“So fucking pretty for me,” Bucky mumbles, keeping up a steady stream of praise because he knows Steve loves it. “Look at you, honey.” He reaches up, cups Steve’s perfect tits and squeezes, just because he can, just because he wants to think about the difference between Steve’s obscenely round, muscular pecs and his own, which are pudging up, soft fat cuddling up to the muscle beneath, starting to wrap around from his chest to his soft sides. God, getting fat would be worth it for nothing else than the perfect, aching contrast between Steve’s body and his own. 

Bucky doesn’t rush it, lets Steve fall apart on his own hand for long, agonizing minutes, watching as the flush on Steve’s cheeks gradually works its way down his neck to his chest, that pretty pale skin pinking up so fucking nicely that Bucky squeezes, gropes him, just to watch red marks appear. 

“You ready?” he finally asks, when Steve is practically keening, his breath coming in needy, delicate little moans that are a perfect contrast to his powerful, capable body. 

“God, Buck, _please_ , I need you, need to feel you,” Steve begs, desperate enough not to hesitate at all, to ask for exactly what he wants. 

“Slick me up,” Bucky says, reaching down to grab his dick. Steve has other plans, though, and shakes his head, sliding down and mouthing Bucky’s cock instead, movements a little jerky, not quite in sync. It’s not a technically brilliant blowjob, but god, it’s so _good_ , the way Steve can barely control himself, the way he’s graceless and awkward because he wants to suck Bucky’s cock but isn’t willing to stop fingering himself. All Bucky can see over his belly is the top of Steve’s pretty blond head, and that combined with the hot, wet sensation of his mouth is about enough to do him in. 

“Get up here, baby, _now_.”

Steve scrambles to obey, and Bucky thinks he might never have seen something as beautiful as Steve Rogers sliding down onto his cock, recklessly fast and not gentle at all, wincing at the stretch and burn of it even as he shoves himself down until Buck’s balls-deep inside him, their bodies flush against each other. 

Bucky opens his mouth and lets a barrage of filthy praise fall out. “God, Stevie, you feel so fucking good, so good for me, honey, just fucking right. Such a pretty boy, so fucking _tight_ , Jesus, honey.”

Steve doesn’t seem capable of speech, as if all of his focus is taken up by the work of riding Bucky’s cock, grinding up and down in a filthy slide, one hand grasping Bucky’s left shoulder for balance, the other grasping the side of Bucky’s belly with a desperate intensity, clutching and squeezing. 

Bucky’s belly still hurts, still makes him feel weighted down and slow, but he can’t help snapping his hips up to meet Steve, no matter how it shakes his belly, makes it ache. “Fuck, sweetheart, yes,” he babbles, and Steve’s answer is just to pant out little huffing breaths with each thrust, a faint “ _Oh –oh –oh _” that just makes the whole thing seem even hotter.__

It’s only minutes, almost no time at all, before Steve’s movements are erratic, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Buck, Buck, Buck,” he chants. “I—I’m gonna come, Buck, please, _please_ —“

Bucky moves his flesh hand from Steve’s hip to his cock, stroking artlessly, knowing it won’t matter. “That’s good, that’s _so_ good, Stevie. Come. Come like a good boy, do it.” 

As Bucky had known it would, the praise—that filthy, loaded praise—is all it takes, and Steve wails, orgasming all over Bucky’s belly. The sight of it, Steve writhing above him, hot seed splattering across his fat belly, puts Bucky over the edge, too, and he grabs Steve by the hips and pulls him down brutally, fucking up into him and coming hard, keeping Steve pinned in place above him. 

*

Bucky can’t help but think of what the Falcon— _Sam_ —had said at the restaurant. “You know, we could get married now, if you wanted,” he says lazily, when they’re showered and clean again, curled under the sheets, Steve petting Bucky’s belly gently, like he just can’t keep his hands off it. 

Steve blinks up at him. “Uh—yeah? I guess?”

“I’d make an honest woman of you.” 

Steve snorts. “What makes you think I’d be the woman?”

“Well, you’re so pretty,” Buck teases, cupping Steve’s chin in his hand. “Look at that face.”

Steve smiles, planting a kiss on the metal fingers currently cradling his jaw. “You’re pretty, too.” His voice is quiet, almost shy. “But I don’t care about getting married. Seems kind of anticlimactic, after everything, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” Bucky agrees, pulling Steve closer to him. “Guess we’ll just shack up like sinners, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s the shacking up part that’s the sin.”

“What’s the sin?”

“Everything else,” Steve says, voice muffled against Bucky’s shoulder, sleepy-sweet and soft. 

Bucky snorts. “Lucky me.” 

“Yup.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally: a nice, traditional, gay, feedist unwedding, with cake and a brand new scale.

“You could get married next summer,” Natasha says, when she comes over for dinner a few weeks later. “Just imagine what Steve would look like in a strapless gown.” They both turn toward Steve, who’s washing the dinner dishes. He's slung a dishtowel over one shoulder, bubbles are sticking in the fine golden hairs along his forearms, and his tight white t-shirt clings to his chest, slightly damp from the steaming dishwater. Bucky and Natasha stare at him together for a little while. 

“Something tells me you’re enjoying the idea enough for both of us,” Bucky says, and she kicks him under the table. 

“Why does everyone always assume I’m the one who’d wear the dress?” Steve asks, not seeming especially bothered by it, just curious. 

“Does _everyone_ assume that?” Natasha asks, shooting a look at Bucky, who isn’t going to touch that one. Natasha shrugs, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “I just don’t think they make gowns that would flatter the metal arm.” And from there, the two of them launch into a conversation about outfits that _would_ flatter the metal arm, and Bucky sits back and listens, amused. 

Natasha had volunteered to bring dessert, so Steve had cooked, and Bucky had picked up wine and cheese and bread, and they’d enjoyed a nice little potluck. Bucky had eaten his own serving plus nearly half of Steve’s, along with most of a loaf of bread, Steve cheerfully smearing huge quantities of butter all over each slice for him. Natasha had cut a ridiculously large piece of chocolate cake for him, and had practically challenged him to accept a second. He’s lingering over that second piece of cake, enjoying the sensation of being full, but not yet excessively so. 

He toys with his fork, one hand cupping the plump lower curve of his belly. The weight he'd gained recently was really starting to make its presence felt. He’d started bumping into things, which was annoying, and occasionally embarrassing. Just this afternoon, he’d jostled into a wine display at the Juice Box, and although no harm had been done, he could feel the disapproving gaze of the fashionably slender kid at the counter. He’d sensed a certain amount of judgment in the look. 

If Steve had been there, the kid probably would have gotten a lecture, but Steve wasn’t there. Bucky had briefly considered ripping the counter in half and smashing the kid’s head into the wall, but his better angel prevailed - he’d paid for his wine, and let the kid off with a smoldering glare that had clearly unsettled him. It’s what Steve would’ve wanted. 

He’d felt so virtuous, he’d purchased a box of cinnamon rolls to eat while he watched Steve cook dinner, and Steve had fed them to him, unwinding curls of pastry gritted with burnt sugar from each sticky coil and slipping them between his lips, kissing the cinnamon from the corners of his mouth from time to time. 

He shifts in his chair, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of his belly. It’s starting to feel truly heavy, shifting his center of gravity, and it’s taking up more and more real estate in his lap. When he’d first arrived here, the kitchen chairs hadn’t seemed quite so small, and he’d been able to scoot right up to the edge of the table. Now he has to sit with his legs a little apart and lean forward to make room for his gut, and even with this accommodation, he can’t quite pull up close enough to the table for comfort. His belly sits in his lap like a beach ball filled with dough, heavy and soft, getting in the way. 

He’s gotten bigger just in the last month or so, which he knows because he hadn’t previously been capable of resting a dessert plate on top of his gut – but he’d done exactly that this evening. A dinner plate next, and then maybe he wouldn’t have to bother with the stupid dinky little kitchen table any more. 

“Steve, just imagine Bucky in seersucker. And suspenders. Red ones. You could get hitched at the botanical gardens, and then you could take turns carrying each other over the threshold. It would be adorable.” 

“Bucky says that’s not seemly,” Steve says, although he glances guiltily at Bucky when she mentions the suspenders. Bucky doesn’t bother with belts at all anymore, it’s suspenders all the way, and even the mention of them drives Steve a little crazy. 

“I said it would be unseemly for you to carry me up the stairs,” Bucky says, leaning back in his chair, stretching and arching his back, letting his gut settle heavily against the front of his shirt. It’s a relatively new shirt, a shade of blue that flatters his coloring, and it’s already starting to feel too small. It pulls tight against the widest part of his tummy, which brushes up against the edge of the table. Bucky notices Steve noticing and smiles. “And probably also impossible,” he adds, patting his belly affectionately.

“He just threw a car at someone a few weeks ago,” Natasha says. “He could carry you up the stairs.” 

“I could totally carry you up the stairs,” Steve agrees. 

“Maybe you could,” Bucky concedes, “But I ain’t letting you. And besides, I’ve been thinking. This apartment is too small. Maybe we should be looking for a new place? Something without any stairs, preferably?” 

It’s not that he can’t manage the stairs, even when he’s incredibly full. He absolutely can. It’s just unpleasant, exerting himself like that, when all he wants to do is get horizontal as fast as possible, have Steve sit in his lap and maybe ride his dick. It really doesn’t seem like too much to ask. 

“Stop changing the subject,” Natasha says, poking him in his human shoulder. “Wedding first, apartment later.” 

“I don’t understand why you’re so interested in this,” Steve says. “Do you even like weddings? Have you ever even been to one?” 

“Sure, they’re great, everyone loves weddings. Beautiful flowers, drinks, gorgeous dress, a party, sometimes there’s a buffet…” she trails off, smiling hugely at Steve, before turning to Bucky. “Steve, with one of those lacy, ribbony garters around one thigh?” she purrs, and Bucky gives Steve a speculative look. “Or better yet – one of those frothy little wedding night negligees?” 

“Now I’m listening,” Bucky says, dodging when Steve throws a dishtowel at him. 

“Well,” Natasha says, leaning forward, smirking, one eyebrow winging upward suggestively. “I’ll describe it in lurid detail if you go get us another bottle of wine.” She holds up her empty glass and smiles. 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, but Natasha shakes her head, holding up her hand, traffic-cop style. “Bucky can do it,” she says. “Besides, you’re busy.” 

Bucky gives her a look. She’s not bothering to be subtle, she obviously wants a moment alone with Steve. “I’ll go get another bottle of wine,” he says, rocking forward and hefting himself out of the chair. “I’ll try to make some noise before I come back.” 

*

Natasha sidles over to the kitchen counter and hops up next to the sink, putting the dishtowel to work drying plates. “Are you happy?” she asks, without preamble. 

“What?” 

“You heard me, Rogers. Are you happy? You and Bucky? That’s what I’m trying to figure out, here. Because if you’re happy, I want to be happy for you. But if you’re not, I’d like to help. I still owe you, remember?” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “And…yeah, why wouldn’t I be happy?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just hard to tell. You _seem_ happy. But there’s this whole…” She waves her hands around, as if dispelling a cloud of gnats, “This whole miasma of sexual something-or-other going on. It’s pretty obvious you’re having fun, and I think the whole thing is fucking delightful, but I just thought I’d ask, to be sure.”

“Sexual something-or-other,” he says, dubiously. 

“Bucky’s getting fat,” she says. “Or fatter, I guess, at this point. He’s what, 260? 270?” and Steve, damn it all to hell, blushes. Instantly. Damningly. “ _That’s_ the sexual something-or-other I’m talking about,” she says, touching her finger to one scarlet cheek. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, and you know what you’re doing. Is he doing this for you? Is _he_ happy?” 

“You know, caring about my happiness - _our_ happiness - is something a friend would do.” 

“Shhh,” she says, smiling and tapping his upper lip with her fingertip. “You’ll ruin my reputation as a callous, world-weary espionage professional. Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m asking.” 

Steve nods once, soberly. 

“Well, that, and an invitation to the wedding,” she says, more loudly, as Bucky clears his throat noisily, just outside the kitchen entryway. “Just think, it’s not too late - you could get married in the fall.” 

*

They don’t get married in the fall, but they do find a new apartment. 

The place fulfills all their requirements – ground floor, no more stairs, larger, brighter, bigger kitchen – and has the added attraction of a bakery right around the corner. The bakery alone had probably been responsible for at least ten of the additional pounds Bucky had gained since they’d moved in. He’s thicker everywhere – his ass softer, his face chubbier, his upper arm thick with extra padding – but his belly takes the brunt of it all. Steve loves how it sticks out in front of him, how it changes the way he moves. He rises from chairs belly-first now, like a pregnant woman, and when he leans forward he has to spread his legs apart to make room for the heavy swell of his gut. 

They’d moved in right before Halloween, and Steve had spent a delirious evening alternating between feeding Bucky all kinds of miniature candy bars and sucking his cock, until Bucky couldn’t stand it anymore and bent Steve over the back of the sofa. 

Bucky had lost a few pounds during the first part of November, but had made up for it at Thanksgiving. He’d eaten the better part of a dinner for four, and had let Steve feed him pie straight from the tin until he was so agitated he’d begged Bucky to fuck him. Bucky had protested that he was too full, but Steve had persisted, kissing and cajoling until Bucky had been as aroused as he was. Bucky had obliged him, right there at the kitchen table, Bucky’s stuffed gut resting heavily on the backs of Steve’s thighs, the white cotton of his t-shirt clinging to his round belly, and Steve had never come harder in his life. 

All this, along with the regular parcels Steve brought home from the bakery, had taken him beyond the capacity of the little bathroom scale Steve had purchased. 

“275? Still?” Bucky had asked, running his hand along the full swell of his belly. “I’d swear it’s more than that.” 

“The scale stops at 275, Buck,” Steve had said, swallowing hard. 

“What kind of a scale stops at 275?” Bucky had asked, peering down sideways, watching the needle tremble just past the upper limit of the dial. 

“I think they almost all do,” Steve had answered, cheeks pink with excitement. “We’ll have to find a special one that goes higher.” 

He’d ordered one off the internet the following day, but Bucky hadn’t deigned to step on it yet, insisting that they wait for a special occasion. 

*

The fact that they have still have no plans to marry by the time winter rolls around doesn’t stop Steve from bringing home a wedding cake a little before Christmas. 

He had stopped at the bakery on his way home, intending to pick up a few boxes of cookies, but he’d seen the two-tiered cake on the counter and stopped to look at it, and the proprietor had waved a hand at it in disgust. 

“Wedding was cancelled,” she’d said. “They finked out on me, won’t pay. You have a birthday or something, need a cake? Fifty bucks, since you’re such a great customer.” And it had felt like fate, so he’d bought it. 

Now, though, as he balances the cake box on the flat of his hand, working his shiny new key into the lock of his freshly-painted new door, he thinks about Natasha, and the question she’d asked him, and wonders if maybe he should fink out on this cake, too. 

It’s not what he wants to do. He wants to give it to Bucky. 

And Bucky would eat it – god, he would probably eat the whole damn thing at once, if Steve asked him to. And Steve would love it. He’d say anything, _anything_ Bucky asked him to, just to see it, just to touch him, just to put his hands and his mouth and his dick on Bucky’s belly and watch him eat cake. He still blushes at the thought, but he’s gotten better at acknowledging these sorts of things. He knows what he wants, even if he still isn’t entirely sure why he wants it. 

But what he doesn’t know is what Bucky wants. He doesn’t know if Bucky’s happy. 

It’s a question neither of them would normally think to ask; they’re not from a generation that ever expected happiness, not the way people do nowadays. And the simple fact of their togetherness feels so right, so huge and tremendous an accomplishment, that it’s hard to tease out the precise nature of his own feelings, let alone Bucky’s. He’s ashamed of himself for not wondering about it before Natasha asked. He’s even more ashamed of himself for not knowing. 

He puts the cake box on the kitchen counter and stares at it. 

“You’re back,” Bucky says, padding into the kitchen. He’s in track pants and a t-shirt, both relatively new. The t-shirt still covers him completely, but it’s drawn tight over the huge, wide orb of his belly, and there’s really no choice anymore but to wear all his pants low around his hips. The shirt is tight enough that Steve can see how thick and heavy his love handles are getting, settling into a full spare tire around his waist, and the track pants fit closely around his thick thighs. Steve’s mouth goes dry, and he lowers his head into his folded arms on the counter with a soft moan. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, stepping in close, hands on Steve’s hips, soft belly nudging the small of his back. _God._ Steve keeps thinking he’ll get used to it, that the effect will somehow diminish, but it just never fucking does. As soon as Bucky touches him, Steve wants him, helplessly and achingly. 

Steve turns in Bucky’s arms and – after only a brief hesitation – lets his hands rest on Bucky’s plump waist. He’s going to have to ask now, before his willpower dissolves under a tide of lust. He looks directly into Bucky’s gray-blue eyes and asks, “Are you happy, Buck?” 

“What’s this?” Bucky asks, cupping the side of Steve’s face, meeting his gaze. “You come home with a fucking wedding cake and suddenly need to know if I’m happy? You trying to tell me something? Or still letting Romanov get under your skin with all that wedding talk?” 

“It’s not that,” although it _is_ that, kind of. “I just – I just want to know,” Steve says. “Please, Bucky, just tell me? Is this…do I…?” He inhales a shaky breath, tries again, “Are you happy like this?” 

“Am I happy like this,” Bucky repeats, considering. “You mean like this?” he kisses Steve softly on the lips, “Or like this?” nudging up against Steve’s abs with his gut. 

“Both,” Steve says. “With me. Like this.” 

“Are _you_ happy?” Bucky asks. “With me, like this?” He glances down at his belly in illustration of what he means by “like this,” and Steve’s eyes follow his, dipping down. 

“You know I am,” Steve whispers. “Bucky, you _know_. What you do to me…I can’t fucking keep my hands off you.” And he really can’t; they’re on him right now, like two errant pets wandering off whenever he isn’t paying attention, cupping Bucky’s gut, finding the fullest, roundest part and rubbing gently. 

Bucky catches Steve’s hands in his, backing him up against the kitchen wall. He pins Steve’s hands by his sides as he leans into him, kisses him again, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue against Steve’s, his body heavy and warm, trapping Steve up against the wall, the top of one wide thigh finding its way between Steve’s legs. 

“God, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs. “It’s always been like that, right from the start. Something about you, about us, it just always felt right.” He kisses him again, nuzzles at his neck, buries his nose against the little spot behind Steve’s ear that smells like sleep and home. “Are you really happy, baby?” 

“Better than that,” Steve says, his voice unsteady. “You’re _everything._ You’re everything to me.”

Bucky stops what he’s doing, looks into Steve’s eyes again. “Then you already know,” he says. “It’s been you and me for longer than most people have been alive. What’s a cake, or a ring, or anything else going to prove that we ain’t already proved a hundred times over? And how can you not know I’m happy when you’re here, looking at me like that?” 

“So you _are_ happy?” 

“Course I’m fucking happy.” 

Steve smiles, hips moving, cock pressed firmly against Bucky’s thigh, all that gorgeous soft belly pressed up against him, and he moans a shivery little moan as Bucky’s body gives in response to the slight pressure. When he isn’t full, his belly is softer, sagging a little, perking up over the course of the day as he eats more. Steve likes it like this just as much as he likes it every other way; soft and giving, firm and full, round and bloated and gurgling, it doesn’t matter. His hands slide around and down Bucky’s back, plush over the hard muscle. “Good,” he says. “I think we should celebrate with cake. And the new scale.” 

“So get the damn cake and let’s go,” Bucky says. 

*

It should feel weird, taking someone else’s wedding cake and dragging it back to your non-marital bed, so that eating it can be foreplay for a kinky sex act which culminates in you stepping on a heavy duty digital scale for your partner’s sexual kicks. 

Bucky knows it’s fucking weird. 

But it doesn’t _feel_ weird. It just feels like the most delicious, filthy secret he’s ever had. 

He palms a hand over his belly, the heavy curve of it, bouncing his hand a little and watching his gut jiggle. So it’s not exactly a secret; at least this part of it is right out in the open. Anyone who looks at him can see that he’s not missing meals. And apparently their friends have all figured it out—Natasha, especially, seems to know exactly what it is he and Steve get up to. But still—it feels like it’s their secret, their private, special thing. 

“So you want me to eat this before I get on the scale, right?” Bucky stacks some pillows against the headboard and lies back, getting comfortable. He knows good and well that Steve would rather jump into traffic than have Bucky step on that scale before he’s put a good dent in that _two tier wedding cake_ he’s currently holding out like a goddamn sacrificial offering. 

“Cake first,” Steve says, giving Bucky a smile so sweet, so achingly earnest, that it almost hurts. 

“C’mere, then.” Bucky pats the bed beside him, and Steve climbs up, cake box balanced in one hand. 

“Can’t believe you bought me a wedding cake, Stevie. You big sap.” 

Steve grins, opening the box and staring down at the confection for a minute before shrugging and stabbing up a huge forkful for Bucky. “Technically, I found someone else’s abandoned wedding cake and brought it home for you. That’s not quite like buying you a wedding cake. I found you one that no one else wanted.” He pats Bucky’s fat stomach, jostling it. “I adopted a stray wedding cake. I thought you could give it a good home.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and accepts another bite. The cake is fantastic, a classic vanilla bean with buttercream frosting, frothy and white. It’s decadent and rich but remarkably simple; it’s the kind of thing Bucky can eat a lot of, mindlessly, before he realizes how full he is. Steve, being Steve, probably knew this the moment he clapped eyes on the thing. 

“Is’ really good,” he says around another mouthful of cake. 

Steve leans over, kissing Bucky thoroughly. “Yeah, it is,” he says, making a show of licking his lips when he pulls away. 

Over the last year, they’ve gotten remarkably good at this; Steve’s hands don’t shake anymore, and they’re both at ease. Steve leans over Bucky, forking up bite after bite of rich, fattening dessert, and Bucky leans back and accepts it as his due. 

“You got really big, you know it?” Steve says, reaching out and tugging Bucky’s t-shirt up, exposing his tummy. 

Bucky huffs, shifting his weight against the pillows at his back. “Yeah, I know it. You kiddin’ me, Rogers?” He reaches down to his lap, hefting up the fat ball of his gut and then letting it drop back to his thighs with a smack. “Carry this thing around all day, don’t I?”

Steve doesn’t respond immediately, just absently shoves a bite of cake into Bucky’s mouth and stares at his belly, mesmerized, as Bucky knew he would be. Doing that—doing the picking his tummy up and then letting gravity pull it back down thing—is a foolproof way to get Steve’s attention. To Bucky’s surprise, though, Steve’s brow suddenly furrows, like he’s troubled—but not, apparently, troubled enough to stop what he’s doing, and Bucky finds himself the recipient of another particularly huge mouthful of heavily frosted cake before Steve sets the fork down and speaks. “Does it hurt? Carrying the extra weight?”

Bucky considers the question for a minute. “It doesn’t hurt, exactly,” he says. “Just gets in the way a lot. And it’s heavy. Uncomfortable, sometimes. Serum probably helps. You’re not the only person who can throw a car around when you feel like it, baby.” 

Steve snorts. “So Hydra did us a favor.” 

Bucky can’t quite hide his surprise. He will, occasionally, joke about his time with Hydra—and he knows it’s a bitter thing, the way he talks about it. Sometimes, though, it just spills out. He’ll remember something that happened, or he’ll wake up screaming. Those seventy years are never far away, never fully buried. Hell, it’s why he’s so happy to have the physical distraction of a box of donuts, a plate—or three—of really good food in front of him. It keeps all of that at bay, at least a little. But Steve—Steve doesn’t talk about the time when he was on ice, when Bucky was the Winter Soldier. 

“Oughtta write ‘em a thank you letter,” Bucky says lightly, letting Steve push another bite of cake in his face. “ _Dear Hydra, thanks for the super strength. It’s come in really handy since I gained a hundred pounds in a year and my boyfriend won’t stop feeding me fucking wedding cake._ ”

Steve doesn’t even crack a smile, clearly hung up on the number. “A hundred? You think so?”

“God, sweetheart. You got a one track mind, you know that?” Bucky grins, licking frosting from his bottom lip. He doesn’t know if it will ever get old, having Steve’s attention like this. Even if he hated being fat, it would probably be worth it, for the way Steve looks at him like he’s everything Steve could ever want, like he’s the embodiment of every dirty fantasy he’s ever had.

Steve shrugs, having the good grace to flush a little. “You know it’s not—it’s not all I care about. Would love you just as much if you were still skinny, running around in your Winter Soldier getup.”

Bucky snorts. “That outfit do it for you, champ?”

“I mean, it’s not suspenders and a beer belly, but there’s a certain appeal,” Steve says, his grin huge and ridiculous, like an advertisement for toothpaste and clean living. 

“Well, I don’t think I could get one thigh into those tactical pants now.” 

“Jesus,” Steve groans, shamelessly shoving the heel of his hand down against his very clear erection. 

“I love you, too. By the way.” 

Steve looks up from where he’s digging around in the cake box, scooping up yet another bite for Bucky. Bucky sort of expects him to blush, or stammer, but he doesn’t. He just gives Bucky another one of those perfect, overwhelming smiles. “I know.”

*

In the end, Bucky works his way through the entire top tier of the wedding cake before he cries off. He could, probably, shove down some more, if Steve really wanted him to—and definitely if Steve begged a little bit—but both of them are ready to see what the scale says. 

Bucky lets Steve tug him up from the bed, happy to let Steve take a little of his weight. His belly’s distended, tight and full under the deep layer of soft pudge that covers it, and he holds it carefully, metal hand supporting the underswell of it, as he follows Steve into the bathroom. 

“I suppose for the sake of accuracy I have to strip down, don’t I?” 

“This is for science, Bucky.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky says, but he’s already pulling his t-shirt over his head, already shoving his track pants over his plush hips and thick thighs. 

Steve looks like he’s got an electrical current running through him, practically vibrating with it, as Bucky steps onto the scale. 

“Three-hundred-one pounds,” a tinny electronic voice announces, startling Bucky enough that he nearly steps off the damn thing. 

“Christ’s sake, you got one that _talks_ , Stevie?”

“Uh—what?” Steve looks distracted, eyes jumping back and forth between the scale and Bucky’s prominent belly. “I mean—er, yeah. It reads it to you in case you can’t see it over all of this.” He grins at Bucky, patting the widest part of his gut. “All _three hundred and one pounds_ of this.”

Bucky scoffs, reaching out and cupping Steve’s pretty little chin in his hand. “Don’t need a scale that talks to me. That’s what I got you for.” 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, hands already crawling all over Bucky, tracing the little pink lines that have sprung up here and there over his gut. 

“What do you want, honey?” Bucky lets his voice go low, dark, the way Steve responds to so well.

“Want you to fuck me, Bucky, Jesus, want you all over me, on top of me, inside me, _God_. You got so big, Bucky, so fucking fat, Jesus—” 

“That’s so good, that’s right, Stevie. That’s so good.” Bucky’s belly is full, aching with the pressure of an entire tier of wedding cake sitting heavily in it, but he can still move quickly, when he wants to, and he wants to right now. He steps off the scale and backs Steve into the bedroom, loving the way Steve practically trips over himself to let Bucky herd him onto the bed. 

“Clothes off, honey, and get the lube,” Bucky says, wasting absolutely no time. 

“I—uh. Buck, I already—I’m ready already.”

Bucky stops, taking a look down at his boy, who’s obediently stripping out of his clothes. “You’re already wet for me?”

Steve nods, looking half embarrassed and half proud of himself. “Did it before we went in the bedroom.” 

“You shameless little slut.” Bucky grins. “All fours on the edge of the bed, then.” 

And god, Steve’s beautiful, his strong back and tight little ass, ready for Bucky, Bucky’s to do with as he pleases. When Steve looks back over his shoulder, blue eyes wide and clear, Bucky aches with the pleasure of knowing Steve is _his_ , that this is his life. 

He lines up, extremely cognizant of the way he has to rest the curve of his belly on Steve’s lower back. God, he’s fucking _big_ , and it’s obvious from Steve’s sharp inhalation that he loves it, the way Bucky’s tummy gets in the way now. 

“God, Stevie, you’re a menace, got me so fat I can barely fuck you,” Bucky mutters, pushing his cock inside and reveling in the way that Steve’s body accepts him, wet and open, and _Jesus_ , the fact that Steve went and prepped himself beforehand makes Bucky want to fuck him into the next goddamn week.

“Ah, god, you—feels like you’re doing okay to me,” Steve sasses, pushing back into Bucky’s cock, arching his back, so perfectly wanton and shameless. 

“Smartass,” Bucky says, gripping Steve’s pretty hipbones and fucking into him, hard, using his upper body strength to pull Steve’s body back onto his own. 

Steve pants and gasps, giving out a sharp little exhalation each time Bucky pulls him back hard onto his cock, and it drives Bucky crazy, those sweet little sounds. 

When he comes, he lets himself lean forward, lets Steve take even more of his weight. 

*

“We should get a bigger bathtub put in,” Steve says later, when they’re in the shower together and he’s rubbing his soapy hands up and down Bucky’s big belly, wrapping his hands around to pinch at Bucky’s love handles, squeeze the plush, generous ring of softness that encircles Bucky’s entire waist now. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that, sweetheart?”

“So you’ll fit in it,” Steve says, grinning and leaning over to kiss at the pudge under Bucky’s chin. 

“I would fit in this bathtub,” Bucky says, although, would he? He’s not actually sure. 

Steve pats his tummy and raises his eyebrows. “If you say so. I wouldn’t fit next to you, though.” 

“You barely fit next to me to shower,” Bucky acknowledges, because he can’t really deny that it’s a tight fit for Steve, Bucky, and Bucky’s belly to all be in the shower together. 

“See?” Steve gives him a look. “We’ll get a bigger one. One of those big fancy ones with all the jets and stuff.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.”

Bucky grins, stepping forward until Steve’s pinned between the shower wall and Bucky’s big tummy. “Brought me a wedding cake, now talking about remodeling the apartment. So domestic, honey.” He leans forward, over his own tummy, and kisses Steve softly, biting at his lower lip. 

Steve nods, smiling into Bucky’s kiss. “Uh-huh.”

Bucky reaches behind him to shut off the spray and grab them both towels. “Hurry up, sweetheart. Dry off and I’ll carry you over to bed—that close enough to a wedding night for you?” 

Steve does as he’s told, toweling off his hair until it’s sticking up in charmingly erratic clumps. “I could totally carry you, though,” he says. 

“I know you could. But you’re gonna let _me_ carry _you_ , aren’t you?” 

Steve smiles again, eyes soft. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

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